The Master of the Hill
by Lothithil
Summary: Sequel to Heir of the Hill. This story, in all it's parts and pieces, is going to cover the time period in Frodo Baggin's life from just before The Party until he learns about the legacy of the Ring and departs from the Shire on his Adventure. Onward!
1. Chapter 1 Welcome Waggon

**Chapter 1  
**_in three parts_

**Sleepless**

Frodo was tired. He had spent the whole of the day helping to unloading the huge waggon the Dwarves had rolled up the Hill the day before, and most of the evening trying to find places in the already crowded rooms of Bag End for all the things Bilbo had ordered. He and Bilbo had then cooked up and served a vast meal for the road-weary Dwarves and themselves, and they had shared as much cheer with their guests as they had energy to spend. Once everyone was fed and bedded down, the smial became quiet for the first time that day, except for the crackle of the coals on the fireplaces and an occasional drawn-out snore.

Tired as he was, sleep was far from Frodo that night. The Birthday Party was now merely two weeks away. The young hobbit lay awake on his bed, thinking. He wished that September twenty-second would not come this year. Foreknowledge of what was going to happen on that day had done little to ease the pain in Frodo's heart; if anything, he grieved more knowing that each passing moment brought Bilbo's departure closer. He would miss his uncle terribly after he went away. What would he do, without his uncle's guidance and companionship? It felt to Frodo like he was becoming an orphan all over again.

Frodo sighed and climbed out of bed. He went to the open window and leaned on the sill with his chin on his folded hands, and looked out at the garden. Moonlight had made the orderly rows and trestles into a tangle of jungle in his imagination. Frodo thought about his uncle wandering around in such a wild place, alone and far away, and he felt a great sadness that could not be assuaged.

He dressed and crept out of his room. It was a soft night so he left his cloak hanging inside the door and picked up his favourite walking stick. He smiled a little as he tucked a fresh handkerchief in his pocket. Carefully he opened the door and stepped out, closing it softly behind him. A walk through Hobbiton and around the Pool might be just the thing to ease his tension, was Frodo's thinking. The hour was very late, so he took the ways that he knew would not take him near any dogs whose barking would rouse and disturb folk.

Bilbo would have kittens if he knew Frodo was out walking alone, but Frodo was not afraid. The strange events that had happened just a week ago seemed like a story told by a fireside, a child's distant memory. On this night, his desire to walk beneath the stars was stronger than his caution.

He walked the familiar road without hurrying, but found himself too soon strolling back up the Hill. He did not yet feel sleepy and the night was too pleasant to close out with roof and walls, so Frodo went into the garden and walked along the path that had looked wild and dangerous from his window. It didn't look like a jungle anymore. Frodo felt for a moment very strange, as if the world had shrunk around him, becoming as small as the Shire, and that everything beyond the borders had vanished or had never been. Frodo looked up at the stars, expecting to see them realigned in alien patterns or falling from the sky.

The stars remained as ever they had been, distant and bright. Frodo expelled his pent breath and relaxed. The stars did not change, however much the world of Frodo Baggins might.

There was a rustling noise behind him. Frodo turned with his walking stick held ready, but it was only Samwise, coming through the garden gate. The younger hobbit whispered, "Mr Frodo, is that you, sir?"

"Sam! Whatever are you doing up at this hour?" Frodo almost laughed, his sudden fear gone with the sound of his friends voice.

"I couldn't sleep, sir. I was up taking the air on the end of the Row when I thought I saw a shadow climbing the Hill. I followed to make sure there was no mischief afoot."

"If there had been mischief, what would you have done, Sam Gamgee?" asked Frodo with a grin, cuffing Sam's shoulder lightly.

"You'd be surprised how much noise I can make when I have to, Mr Frodo," said Sam. He looked around and then up at Frodo. "What are you doing out here, sir, if you'll forgive my asking? You've a long day ahead of you tomorrow. Asleep you should be, though I say it as shouldn't."

"I know, Sam. I just can't close my eyes yet. I keep thinking about... the Party." Frodo had promised to keep secret Bilbo's intent to leave the Shire, so he could not share even with Sam the things he was feeling. He offered a weak smile that Sam could not see in the darkness, and sighed softly.

"Everyone is looking forward to it, sir! I can tell you, I have lost some sleep thinking about it, too. I can hardly wait, and then again, I kinda wish't that it wouldn't come."

"Why is that, Sam? Why would you not wish for that day to come?" asked Frodo.

"Well, you'll be of age on that day, and perhaps you'll be too busy for ... well, I mean, you'll have better things to do with your time than... " Sam's voice faded to a mutter, and Frodo thought he could see a flush on Sam's face by the light of the low moon.

"Sam, we will still go fishing and camping together, you and I, and Merry and Pippin, too. Coming of age doesn't mean I'll be locked in my smial for the rest of my life!"

"I know, sir! I was just thinking and, well... thinking isn't what I do best, as my Gaffer tells me."

Frodo shook his head. "I would have to disagree with your Gaffer about that, Sam. But let's forget our worries for a moment and enjoy the evening. I think I know something that will cheer you up." Sam looked up at him again with an eager light in his brown eyes. Frodo laughed softly and whispered, "I heard from Bilbo today that Gandalf is coming to the Party, and that he is bringing... _fireworks!_"

Sam stuffed his fist in his mouth to prevent his outburst from waking the neighbourhood, "Fireworks! O, Mr Frodo! I have always heard such tales of Gandalf's fireworks! Is he really coming? O my!"

Sam fluttered about excitedly and Frodo laughed aloud at his antics, his tension and sadness fall from him. Bilbo would come and go as his will directed him, seeking Adventure, but Frodo realized now that he would not be left utterly alone. He allowed himself to smile and felt his weariness catch up with him at last.

"I'm for bed now, as so you should be, too. Goodnight, Sam." Frodo said.

"Goodnight, Mr Frodo! I'll not sleep a wink, I am sure, but I'll be just as happy daydreaming! Good night, sir!" Sam walked out of the gate, talking softly and excitedly to himself.

Frodo walked slowly back to the front door of the smial, yawning and chuckling. He would have a few hours of sleep and a long tomorrow, and with luck Gandalf would turn up sometime soon. Frodo felt a craving for his company and his wise conversation. Frodo wondered if the wizard would be going with Bilbo on his Adventure, as he had done before. That would make it harder, knowing that they were bound for excitement together while he remained behind in the Shire.

Frodo put on his nightshirt and laughed at himself. Becoming the Master of the Hill was going to be an Adventure, too. And as much as he would miss Bilbo, he knew he was going to be very happy.

Frodo fell asleep quickly, his curls stirred by the breeze from his open window. The sky outside was turning violet before dawn, but the birds in the hedgerow were hushed, as if the garden of Bag End did not wish to disturb the young Master's sleep.

**II**

**Foxtail**

Frodo woke to the sounds of stirring in the hole; Dwarven boots make quite a distinct sound, even when carefully placed. Frodo dragged himself from bed and found that someone, probably the ubiquitous Samwise, had left a basin and pitcher for his bath. Mumbling blessings for his benefactor, he poured the basin full of warm water and plunged in his hazy head and washed his sleepiness away.

The kitchen of Bag End was warm and full of life. Frodo edged inside past the table set with a massive breakfast and six Dwarves. Bilbo hailed him and bade him sit and eat before there was naught left but bread crusts.

There was little danger of going hungry as the table was heaped with food. Bilbo had risen early and prepared for the busy day. Frodo helped himself to an ample breakfast then offered to do the washing up for Bilbo, "To make up for sleeping late and being of no use this morning!" Frodo added with a sheepish grin.

"Nonsense, my lad," said Bilbo, waving away Frodo's contrition. "We shall take care of this and everything else today. You need a holiday, I think; yesterday took more out of you that this breakfast has put back in! Take a stroll today or read a book. Frerín and his cohorts will be all the help I need today. Besides, how am I to arrange any surprises for you if you are underfoot?"

"I don't know if I want any surprises, uncle," said Frodo with a laugh. "Are you sure you don't need my help?"

"We'll manage today without it. Just keep an eye on the road for Gandalf, if you could. I am expecting him at any time. Indeed, he should have been here by now, but you know how wizards are... they have their own impeccable sense of timing!"

"Our wizard does, at any rate!" agreed Frodo, and he fetched from his room the book he was reading and took Bilbo's advice; a nice long stroll and a book under a tree sounded very pleasant.

Bilbo handed him a package with a morsel for second breakfast and Frodo was off down the road, his spirit high and his pace light. He felt quite relieved to be outside on what was turning into a lovely day, but he felt a touch guilty, too, for not putting up more resistance to Bilbo's dismissal. But well... a day to himself outside of the crowded hole sounded so very nice, and it had been long enough since Frodo had had the opportunity to do nothing for a while. It may be a long time indeed before the chance came again.

Frodo steered away from that dark thought and picked up his pace. He wasn't in a hurry, really, except that as it was such a nice morning and there being quite a few hobbits about, someone was bound to say something to him...

"Hullo! Young Master Baggins! I hope all is going well with you and your uncle?" Daddy Twofoot leaned against his fence next to the letterbox and nodded to Frodo. "Quite the shindig ol' Bilbo is planning, eh lad?"

"Yes, sir, all is well on the Hill today. Thank you!" Frodo said cheerfully. "Keep an eye on that letterbox... your invitation should be arriving soon!"

"Invitation? Gah! I live within shoutin' distance from the front door of Bag End... just poke yer head out and holler when the food's ready!"

Frodo laughed and waved as he walked away. He crossed the bridge and walked purposely through town, as if on an urgent errand, hoping to keep the interruptions to a minimum. He managed to get out of the village fairly quickly and settled into his long strolling walk that ate up the miles swiftly without tiring him out too fast. When he reached the Bywater Lane he picked a spot and left the road, climbing a steep bank up toward some large leafy oak trees that looked invitingly shady.

He found one friendly-looking tree and settled at its roots. Looking around at the peaceful green-gold world he was in, he sighed happily and opened his book. The sunlight dappled through the leaves and lit the pages beautifully. He began to read.

The day warmed and soon Frodo was blinking at the words before his eyes. He shook his head slightly and stretched. It wouldn't do! A whole day to read and all his body wanted to do was sleep!

Frodo took out the apple his uncle had given him for a snack and munched on it, careful not to get the sweet juice on the pages of the precious book. He wiped his mouth and his hands with his handkerchief and resumed his reading. He plucked a stem of sweetgrass that was waving its head at him in the gentle breeze, and he chewed absently on it as he explored the world inside his book.

It was a fascinating book, dealing with the histories of the line of the ancient Sea Kings of distant lands. To Frodo, who had never seen a Man up close, it read like high fantasy; tales of ships and floating islands, and civilizations beyond his wildest dreams. And in the end, as in all of the great Elvish tales, there was much sadness, but not a loss of all hope. Even as the land of the Western Kings sank beneath the angry sea, seven ships came sailing out of the storms, bearing the light of the noblest of the line, Elendil the Elf-friend.

Reading this book made Frodo curious about his own history, and the founding of the Shire. He wondered where hobbits had dwelled before they came to these fair lands. The earliest tales told of 'coming to the Shire'. Coming from where? Frodo wondered. And were there still hobbits living in the Wild somewhere, cut off and forgotten about, after almost half again a thousand years? What if Bilbo found them in his wanderings? What tales they would tell him...!

Frodo plucked another stem of grass and brushed his lips softly with the fox-tail. It felt like a caterpillar and it tickled. He stuck the end between his teeth and tasted the juice, sweet and pungent on his tongue, like rhubarb jam or gooseberry pie.

The fragrance of the grasses and wild flowers and the warmth of the sun conspired to lull the hobbit into a half-dream, in which he found himself walking through the wild lands. It seemed that the trees and hills were flowing past him, like two rivers of green and brown and gold, while he remained steady on the unwavering road. He was looking desperately for some thing or place, or someone.

**III**

**Punctuality**

_The Road goes ever on and on  
Down from the door where it began  
And far ahead the road has gone  
I must follow if I can..._

The words of the tune were well-known to Frodo, as it had been written and taught to him by his uncle, but it was not Bilbo's voice that sang now. It took a moment for Frodo to realize that he was no longer dreaming, but actually hearing someone singing... and the song was growing louder and clearer as the person drew nearer. Frodo heard the creak of a cartwheel and the clop-clop of a pony's hooves.

He raised his head, hardly daring to believe it might be... yes! It was! A smile bloomed upon his face.

Frodo stashed his book and pack in the arms of the oak tree and took off at a run. He pelted down the steep slope headlong, as reckless as a child. His feet were sure and he had no fear. It was almost like flying, the trees and bushes were green blurs rushing past him, and as the ground sloped upward again he came to the sudden cutting, where the road went through the bank. Frodo bounced to a halt, crossing his arms and planted his foot on a tussock. In the haughtiest manner he could affect, he glowered and said:

"You are late."

The cart came to a stop as the large figure driving pulled back gently on the reins. A wide-brimmed blue hat tilted down over a long grey beard, and his hands that held the leather straps were huge and gnarled and brown with sun. He sat utterly still on his waggon, then slowly the hat tilted upward and Frodo saw those piercing blue eyes beneath their great bushy brows. They twinkled at him, though the face that held them wore a sober expression and stern.

"A Wizard is never late, Frodo Baggins." His voice was deep, soft but distinct. He frowned back at the hobbit, jutting forward his chin so that his beard bristled out. "Nor is he early... he arrives precisely when he mean to!"

"Precisely _after_ all the other work is done, you mean," said Frodo. His round, rosy face was twitching with an effort not to smile, but he failed at the last and burst into laughter. He threw back his head and laughed from his heart. "You came! You came! O Gandalf, it is wonderful to see you!" he cried, and he threw himself from the top of the embankment at the grey-robed Wizard.

Gandalf caught him easily, laughing his booming laugh and hugging Frodo tightly. "Likewise, likewise, Frodo! I am very glad to see you, too," he said, setting the hobbit down carefully and looking him over with a keen eye. He cupped Frodo's cheek and gave him a gentle pat. "You didn't think I'd miss yours and Bilbo's Birthday, did you?" Frodo shook his head 'no', his eyes dancing. "And what are you doing lurking along the road, waylaying innocent travelers? You haven't taken up Bilbo's old job as a burglar, have you?"

Frodo laughed. "No! I have been set to watch the road. It has been so long since your last visit, we thought that perhaps you might have forgotten the way up the Hill, and gotten lost."

"Hurumph! I have been lost and found more often than you've had hot suppers, young Master Baggins... well," and Gandalf prodded Frodo's round belly with a finger, "Well again, perhaps not! You've not missed many of those, I see!"

Frodo giggled and sat down on the buckboard next to Gandalf. "I do my share of damage to the dinner table! And you look as though you have been doing fairly well yourself, Gandalf, though I don't ever remember seeing you looking less. Bilbo is expecting you, of course, but he will be so glad to see you've come. The waggon from Erebor only just arrived the day before yesterday!"

Gandalf clucked to the pony and the waggon began to move forward. "Then Frerín and the team have arrived, eh? Excellent! The best Dwarvish chefs the Lonely Mountain has to offer! I was surprised--and delighted!—to learn that Bilbo had managed to lure them out here to cook for his Party... that is, I should say,_your_ Party!"

Frodo smiled and sat back, enjoying the view from the high waggon seat. "It's more Bilbo's day than mine. He does love to throw a Party. I have to say, I am rather looking forward to it myself now," and Frodo paused, his smile fading just a shade. He brightened quickly and chattered on, but Gandalf had caught with his keen eyes and ears the note of sadness in the young hobbit's manner. He said nothing, but listened to Frodo talk about Bilbo's plans.

"... And there will be games, too, and music! Players from all over the Shire have been hired! There is only one thing I can think of that might be more exciting." Frodo gave a sly, sideways glance at the Wizard.

"And what might that be, Frodo?" asked Gandalf mildly, his long beard failing to mask his own knowing smile.

"Oh, a little smoke and fire," Frodo said airily, half-turning and lifting one corner of the tarpaulin that lay over the waggon's cargo. He managed to see only a couple of colourful bundles before Gandalf playfully rapped his knuckles with his long-stemmed pipe.

"Not until the Party, my cheeky lad!" Gandalf said. Frodo grinned at him.

They rode on in silence for a while, Gandalf puffing his pipe and Frodo rocking and bouncing as they trundled along the road. They came to the village of Bywater, and Gandalf nodded to the folk who waved and whispered. The wide wheels of Gandalf's cart barely fit on the bridge over the Water, but they made it across to the Hobbiton side and began to weave the wandering ways that led up the Hill.

Frodo was thinking while Gandalf was smoking. "Can I ask you a question, Gandalf? Before we come home?"

"Of course. What would you know, dear Frodo?"

Frodo said nothing for a while, then he asked in a low voice, "What do dreams mean?"

Gandalf shot the young hobbit a surprised look. Frodo's face was entirely sober and serious. "Dreams? Well now, there are dreams and then dreams. Why do you think they mean anything?"

"I don't know. I have strange dreams sometimes, as I suppose everyone does. But once in a while I have a dream that doesn't feel like a dream at all but like...a memory, I think. But they are nothing of any time or place I have ever seen, and sometimes they make me feel very sad and small. Sometimes I have these dreams when I am not asleep." Frodo glanced up at Gandalf through his lashes, a look of worry on his young face. "Does that sound odd to you?"

"No, not at all, my lad. It sounds very normal and interesting." Gandalf said comfortingly.

"But what do they mean?" persisted Frodo.

"This subject requires a long answer or none. We are coming to the Hill now. Let me think about your question, and you think about these dreams you've had, and later we will talk about it at length. Agreed?"

Frodo looked up, shocked to see that they were riding past Bagshot Row and nearly to Bag End's door. "Oh! I am supposed to stay gone today! Bilbo is planning some surprise for me." Frodo stood up, and he laid his small hand on his friend's arm. "Gandalf," Frodo spoke softly, joy chasing away all the shadows of trouble from his fair face, "Gandalf, I am glad you're back!" Frodo then leapt from the rolling waggon, landing deftly on his feet at a run. He turned and waved back to Gandalf, still smiling broadly.

Gandalf waved back at him. "So am I, dear boy. So am I"

Frodo jogged back down the road; his head full of questions he wanted to put to the Wizard. He came by ways to the place where he had been reading, puffing a little from his run. His book was safe, still comfortably tucked into the protective hollow of the tree's heart. He retrieved it, but paused. He couldn't go back to Bag End yet. It would only be fair to give Bilbo a few hours with Gandalf.

Frodo looked about and sighed. This was a truly restful place, after all, and now he was tired from his run. He settled beneath the tree, pillowing his head on his pack, and thought about his dreams until he slipped into one.


	2. Chapter 2 Helping Hands

**Chapter 2  
**_in three parts_

**Hide and Seek**

Merry was deep in thought. It had been an interesting year full of expectation for the upcoming Birthday Party of cousins Bilbo and Frodo, but also one full of secret talk amongst the 'conspirators'. Sam still winced whenever Merry referred to them by that title at one of their semi-frequent meetings during Merry's holidays to Westfarthing, but the Bucklander saw no reason to call them anything else. What they were doing was subversive, invasive, and despicable... and as every day passed each friend became more worried that they were about to loose both of their cousins.

Merry was convinced that Bilbo was going to leave the Shire again, this time perhaps for-ever. He wasn't sure that Frodo was going to go with him, but he suspected that he might follow, with or without Bilbo's consent. That was their greatest fear; he and Sam. Pippin held out firmly that Frodo would not leave the Shire… not yet, though he would not say exactly why he believed this so stubbornly. He would only say that he trusted his cousin enough to think that he would not leave them behind without a word.

The messages leaving Bag End were un- numerable—much more than the young hobbits could hope to intercept inconspicuously—and there were parcels being delivered and packed away, things being moved and doors and windows locked every night and day; all the activity in Bag End was beyond the reach of the three friends, even Sam that lived and worked close by. So close and yet so far away, and all they could do was watch and wait and worry.

The Birthday was now two weeks away. Merry had ridden to Tuckbourogh to bring Peregrin to Bag End to help Frodo and Bilbo prepare for the Party. Merry had suggested gently and persistently that they needed young, energetic assistants, and he and Pippin had managed to get an invitation to come early. Bilbo had sent the notes, knowing that Frodo would have quite a job sorting out things after he left the Shire, but he said nothing of that in the message. 'Do please collect our cousin Pippin,' it had read, 'and come and lend a hand. There is plenty of both room and work for all!'

So here they were, Merry and Pippin, riding toward Hobbiton on a fresh September morning, both lost inside their own thoughts.

Pippin, for once, was not chattering. He was thinking, just like Merry was doing, of what might happen after the twenty-second of September. He was younger than both Merry and Frodo, and much younger than Bilbo, but when it concerned their oldest cousin, he was serious beyond his years. He remembered vividly the conversation between Frodo and Bilbo that he had overheard a few years ago. Bilbo had extended an invitation to Frodo to accompany him when he went away on his next Adventure and Frodo had chosen to stay in the Shire. No, Pippin was not worried that Frodo would leave; Pippin's debacle was that he was sure Bilbo was going very soon, and he did not want that to happen.

"He can't go and leave Frodo all alone," He said to Merry as they had been readying their ponies that morning on the front step of the Great Smials. "Frodo won't have any more time to play, or come to visit as often as he has. He's going to be a grown-up... I don't ever want to be that old!" he had complained bitterly. "And who will teach me my letters so that I will match you and Frodo?" The younger hobbit still laboured at ciphering and sums, though he could read as well as Merry himself.

Merry laughed at his protests, but his mirth had sounded a little hollow to Peregrin. "Frodo won't be lonely, Pip. And he'll always have time for us. If he doesn't leave..."

"Frodo won't." Pippin insisted gently.

"I am curious to know how you are so sure, Pippin. Won't you tell me?" Merry knew his young cousin had been holding out something from him and Sam. Pippin refused to tell what he knew, only repeating what he always said:

"I just know, Merry. Trust me."

They had been riding in silence ever since, side by side and both keeping their own council.

By the time they had reached Hobbiton, it was getting on toward suppertime. They had stopped along the ride to rest their ponies and take their luncheon, but still they were tired and very hungry when they came clopping over the bridge by the mill. Merry kept an eye out for Ted, but the building was closed up and the mill quiet; the miller and his son had apparently already gone home for the day. But there was a figure sitting beside the road, waiting for them.

Sam stood up and waved as he saw them turn up the path that led toward Bag End.

"Hallo!" he cried, slapping the dust off of his trews and trotting over to them. The ponies nickered and nosed Sam impatiently; he smelled like something they both wanted to eat. Laughing, Sam took apples out of his pockets and gave them to the ponies.

"I imagine you're all eager to be fed! Mr.. Bilbo sent me down to look for you, and for Frodo. Have you seen him on your way though Hobbiton, Mr.. Merry?"

"No, we haven't. Is he missing?" Merry heart gave a wild thump. _Were they already too late?  
_  
"No, no... Mr.. Bilbo sent him to spend the day as he would, and he took a book and disappeared into the trees, reading. Mr.. Gandalf arrived earlier today, and said he saw him on the Bywater road. I looked along at way, but I didn't see him. The day got away and I figured I better come wait for you here. I guess I will go back and see if he is there now. He might have taken a nap and lost track of time."

"I'll go look for him, Sam. I know some places he likes, and I've a pony to carry me. Will you take Pippin up the Hill?"

Pippin protested. "Merry, I want to come look for Frodo, too!" but his eyes were tracking up toward Bag End. _Gandalf was here!_

"I can find him, Pip. Go and extend our greeting to Bilbo, and tell him I will be there with Frodo very soon. Please?" Pippin grumbled a little, but in truth we was tired and hungry, and the idea of sitting and listening to Bilbo and Gandalf talk made him rather excited.

"I'll see him to Bag End, Mr. Merry, but if I don't hear you both coming up the Hill soon, I'll come looking!" Sam gently took hold of the headstall of Pippin's pony and clucked at him. "Come on, you. I've alfalfa and some grain you might fancy for supper, but you'll have to save some for your friend that Mr. Merry's riding..."

Merry turned and rode over the bridge again. He trotted through the quiet streets of Hobbiton until he reached the Bywater road. There he urged the pony into a gallop, counting rock walls until he came to the first place he thought Frodo might be.

He checked the Wish Well, where as children he and Frodo had cast in pennies for luck. Then he checked the climbing tree, now almost entirely choked with ivy. He checked the blackberry patch, too, even though Merry was pretty sure Frodo would avoid that place. He stopped there long enough to gather a handful of berries to quiet his growling stomach. He looked in all the places where he and Frodo had played together after Frodo had moved to Hobbiton eleven years ago. There were more places to look, but the sun was sinking now and even though Pippin had insisted that he shouldn't, Merry began to feel anxious that Frodo had left them all behind.

He almost tripped over the hobbit lying under the oak tree where they often played hide and seek. Frodo was fast asleep, his head pillowed on his pack and one arm over his eyes to keep out the sun. Merry touched his shoulder gently and said, "Suppertime, Baggins! How is it you always seem to wake up just in time for a meal?"

"How is it you always seem to find me, no matter how well I try to hide?" asked Frodo, who then laughed and sat up. He stretched and yawned, then exclaimed, "O, I have lost the rest of the day! I meant only to take a nap... what's the time?"

"Well past five o'clock and about to become dark. I've a pony that will ride two, though he won't like it one bit. We'll make it back to Bag End for the tail end of supper, but if we beg, I am sure Bilbo will fix us a second."

Merry offered a hand to Frodo, who accepted it and let his cousin pull him to his feet. He picked up his pack and his book.

"Thanks for coming to find me, Merry. How did you know I was here?"

"Simple deduction, my dear Frodo. If I was going to hide from the world, I would hide here. Of course, I checked every other place along Bywater road, too... just to be sure!"

Frodo smiled and laughed, "Methodic and thorough... just like our Uncle Rory. How is he, by the way? And how are Aunt Esme and Uncle Saradoc?" Frodo felt a sudden twinge of homesickness for the banks of the Brandywine River where he had spent his earliest years. "You must give me all the news of Buckland," Frodo said earnestly.

The hobbits spoke lightly as they climbed down the bank and reclaimed the pony who, in his impatient hunger, had wandered off the road and was feasting on Farmer Burrow's un-harvested turnip-greens. It took a little more talking to get the pony to hold still long enough for both Merry and Frodo to climb onto its back. He snorted and gave a little buck, but offered no more quarrel as they trotted home.

Bag End seemed to glow like a lighthouse on the Hill, beckoning them home.

**II**

**Dwarf Cooking**

"Don't worry, Pippin sir. Master Merry will find Mr. Frodo, I am sure."

Pippin looked down at Sam, who had been leading the pony as they climbed the Hill. The young Took's mind had wandered back into the thoughts that had been badgering him all day. "Sam, please—I've asked you a hundred times—don't call me that. I am not old enough to be a 'sir' or a 'mister'. Just call me Pippin."

"And I told you, sir—ah, Mister—er—_Master_ Pippin, that it is disrespectful for me to call you just by your name. Within the hearing of others anyway. One day, you will be Thain, like your father, and..."

"And on that day, I shall remember that gardeners are people, too. My father is a farmer, Sam. And I can only hope to someday be as wise and just as he." Pippin laughed, "Right now, I am just a hungry hobbit with a saddle-weary rear end!

"Anyway, I'm not worried about Frodo... when is he ever on time for a meal? I wish that I didn't know what I know about Cousin Bilbo." Pippin's voice dropped down to a whisper. "It is just so hard, Sam. How am I supposed to pretend to enjoy the prospect of the Party knowing that he is going..." Pippin trailed off, not wanting to speak the words aloud, lest that make them more likely to come true. Also, there were still many ears open and listening along the road.

"I understand," said Sam softly. "I wish that it weren't so, too. Seein' things coming from far off don't always make them easier to accept. But we must pretend that we don't know. If Mr. Bilbo ever found out—or worse, my gaffer—!" Sam's voice trailed off as he shuddered. "Best not to think about that!"

"Don't worry, Sam! What we do, we do for love for our friends. And no one will find out." _Or we will __**all**__ be in trouble with our gaffers!_ Pippin added silently. He then had to grab swiftly for the saddle-horn to avoid tumbling to the ground. The pony let out a frightened whinny as something shook the bushes nearby noisily.

Sam clung to the pony's headstall and was pulled briefly off of his feet as it reared and backed away. "Whoa! What's got into you, lad?" Sam was calming the pony with soft words and gentle hands.

"Watch out for the mad horse!" a surly voice said, and out from between a gap in the hedgerow stepped Ted Sandyman himself, laughing his churlish laugh. He stopped when he saw Peregrin on the pony. Reluctantly, he took off his shapeless hat and said, "Your pardon, Took. I didn't know you were here. I was just givin' my old friend Samwise here a scare, for fun. No harm intended." He cuffed Samwise on the arm, none too gently.

Pippin said nothing. He did not like Ted Sandyman. Sam patted the pony's neck and sighed. There was a little frown between his eyebrows, but he did not let himself get angry.

Instead, he turned his back on Ted, saying, "No harm done, Ted, but it was a near thing! If this animal had spooked, he might have thrown Mr. Pippin, and you know Frodo would be very upset if his young cousin came to harm."

Ted shot Samwise a dark look and grumbled, but he said no more and went back through the hedge.

"Are you all right, Mr. Pippin?" Sam asked. Pippin nodded, letting out his breath all in one sigh. He hadn't realized he had been holding it.

Sam urged the pony to continue. Bag End was close enough now to hear the singing of the Dwarves as they gathered round the open-air hearth the back of Bilbo's garden. A delicious aroma filled the air.

The pony could smell something, too, but it was the new mown hay that he desired; he willingly followed the hobbit's urging and soon they were at the gate in front of Bag End. Sam offered a hand to Pippin to help him down, but the younger hobbit just laughed and slithered down the pony's flank. "Let's get him settled first. He's worked harder than _I_ this day, though I am hungry enough to eat _him_ right now!"

"Let me do that, Mr. Pippin," Sam insisted, "I've had my first supper already, and you're peaked as a loaf of unbaked bread. Let me deliver you as I promised, then I'll take care of ol' Surefoot, there." Sam tied the pony's reins to the fence and opened the gate for Pippin. Pippin sighed and went through obediently.

The door opened when Pippin had no more than placed his hand on the bell-rope. A stocky figure dressed in outlandish clothes stood there, regarding them with interest. Two bright green eyes, a bulbous nose, and a long face covered in a neatly trimmed black beard; this is what Peregrin saw. He was about cousin Frodo's height—who was tall for a hobbit—and nearly twice as wide. He wore big heavy boots and a white apron over colourful clothes of a strange cut.

"Well, come in!" the figure said, standing aside. "Frerín is my name... Frerín Applebutter. Not a very impressive name for a Dwarf, perhaps, but it fits me well enough. Have you come for supper? You're late, but there's still plenty left. I cooked enough to feed half of this village. Which of you is the Brandybuck? Bilbo said he was expecting more company today."

"Um," Pippin stammered. He had never seen a Dwarf so close before, and never ever spoken to one. "Ah, neither of us. Sir. This is Samwise Gamgee, and I am Peregrin Took. Merry Brandybuck, my cousin, went to find Frodo to bring him to supper. Is there really any left? It smells wonderful..." Pippin smiled hopefully.

"Plenty, I am sure, if you get a move on. I'll see to it that something is set back for the latecomers, too. How about you, Mr. Gamgee? Not hungry for a little Erebor cooking?"

"No, sir... I mean, yes, sir, I am! But first I must take care of Mr. Pippin's pony, and then I should be a-gettin' homewards."

"Nonsense," muttered Frerín, and he tucked his lip behind his teeth and gave a long, piercing whistle. Another Dwarf appeared—this one with a proper long growth of beard. He pushed past the two hobbits and took the pony in hand, leading it toward the rear entrance of the Hill. "Gran here will take care of that beast for you. Go on into the dining-room. Like I said, you're expected. I've got to make sure those louts haven't forgot to baste the roasting..." and he went out and closed the door behind him. They could hear him shouting playfully at the other Dwarves in the garden.

Pippin hesitated in the hall, a little breathless. "_That's_ a Dwarf," he said softly.

Sam helped him shed his coat. "That is _one _Dwarf, and Gran is another. They all look so alike when first you see them, but it doesn't take long to be able tell 'em apart. Different as carrots and cabbages, they are."

They followed the heavenly scents of food. Bilbo looked up just as they came through the dining-room door. "Frerín, did you check the... Peregrin! You made it, lad! Samwise, did you not find Frodo?"

"Master Merry's gone to fetch him, sir. He said he thought he knew a likely place to look for him." Sam looked around, nodding to the three Dwarves sitting at the table with Bilbo. "Where's Mr. Gandalf, sir, if I may ask?"

"Out gossiping with the Dwarves, of course. He's as hungry for news as I am, that one! I suspect he'll see fit to join us later. I hope Frodo and Merry are back by then, but I'm sure they will be. Those two have trod every inch of ground between Hobbiton and Bucklebury together. I am glad you are here, Pippin. Sit and have something to eat now, lad. You, too, Samwise—there's plenty." He dished heaping plates for both of them, while they hastened to wash hands and faces before sitting down. Bilbo introduced Tibor, Kairin, and Frigg to Peregrin, who bowed clumsily, trying to remember the proper greetings.

"At your service... I think..." he mumbled.

The Dwarves smiled at him and urged both of them to sit down and eat. Soon Pippin and Sam were laughing with Frigg's jests and feeling quite comfortable. The food was excellent. Tibor urged them to sample the wild hen with sage dressing; one of his own creations.

There was also a ham with candied fruit, a pile of potatoes baked and stuffed with herbs and marrow-jelly, and fresh greens still crisp from the garden. Cooling on the window sill were four pumpkin pies sprinkled with nutmeg and cinnamon. Sam offered no more objections but sat down and dug into his plate. He wondered if Frerín would mind a temporary apprentice during his brief stint as Bilbo's cook. He wanted the recipe for everything he tasted.

⌂

They were on their second plates when the front door creaked opened and closed, and Frodo appeared. "Forgive me, everyone, Bilbo; I got lost in a book and fell asleep in the woods." He crossed and washed his hands in the basin. "Merry will be in directly. He wanted to settle the pony first."

"We'll save him something. My dining room seems to have become an inn!" Bilbo laughed. "I've never seen so many young hobbits late for a meal before!" Everyone laughed.

"We shall do it justice, nonetheless," said Frodo. Sam rose in his place to offer Frodo his seat, but Frodo pushed him back down with a gentle hand, taking the chair next to his. "Finish your dinner, Gamgee. I can serve myself when I am late for supper." Frodo smiled at him.

Sam flushed, reaching for a dish to offer him. "This is Tibor's cooking—try this! I've never et chicken that tasted so good!"

The Dwarf half-rose and bowed to Sam. "Thank you! Here, try a touch of this sauce on that game hen—"

As he passed the bowl of thin white sauce to Frodo, Peregrin dipped a curious finger into it. One Dwarf laughed and warned him before he tasted it, "That's powerful stuff, there, little master; beware! Wild Onion mustard, that is, and it'll make your beard curl... well, maybe not your beard, but perhaps it is a little spicier than you may be used to."

Pippin dabbed a bit on his tongue, and his eyes few wide open and he grabbed a mug of cider and drank it down. "Hot!" he managed to say, while everyone laughed. "Were the onions on fire when you made that mustard?"

⌂

Sounds of cheer drifted out of the smial, across the garden bathed twilight. It touched the ears of a lone hobbit-lad who was stroking flank of a pony as it eagerly nosed its feed. Merry was wrestling with a sudden fear.

He hadn't thought about Gandalf being here, when he had asked to come and help prepare for the Party. Merry was sure that if Gandalf saw him, he would read his mind and know all that he had done. And there would be no spywork or conspirator meetings with a Wizard around!

He patted the pony's neck and squared his shoulders. "Well, there's nothing for it. It's go inside or go home. If he know, he knows."

He turned to go inside, and ran straight into Gandalf who had been standing behind him.

"If who knows, he knows what, young master Brandybuck?" the Wizard asked with a small smile.

**III**

**Wisdom and Guilt  
**  
Merry stared upward at the Wizard who had seemed to have appeared from out of nowhere, so silently had he stepped up behind the hobbit. His round face was full of sudden fear, and his tongue was stuck in his mouth. He was too afraid even to move.

But Gandalf smiled kindly at him. Reaching past the startled hobbit, he patted the pony gently on the flank. "It is good to see these fine beasts are so well taken care of, especially when I know you must be hungry and tired yourself, Meriadoc. It is a long way for a young hobbit to travel, from Buckland to Tuckborough to Hobbiton, even on horseback. If your friend is settled for the night, why don't we go inside and see to our own feedbags, before your younger and older cousins leave the pantry stripped of victuals? Hmm?"

Merry found a small smile and offered it to Gandalf. He lowered his gazed quickly and nodded, still unable to find his voice_. 'How could he have been so stupid as to speak his mind aloud'_ he was thinking. Had he said anything within the Wizard's hearing that would incriminate Samwise or Peregrin, or himself?

Gandalf stepped aside and beckoned Merry to walk with him. "I saw that you have delivered Frodo home. It eases my heart, knowing that he has friends who care about him, who look after him so... _fervently."_ Merry had been looking carefully at the ground before his feet; he lifted his head and saw that Gandalf was watching him. The Wizard's eyes twinkled.

_'He has to know'_, thought Merry. A flush rose in his face that was more than the passion of embarrassment; it was his fierce loyalty and protectiveness for Frodo that burned under his skin. "I would never hurt Frodo or Bilbo. I would never let anyone hurt them!" he said defiantly.

"I know," said Gandalf softly, answering both word and thought, "Be cautious that your curiosity does not become a wicked thing, so that it twists your motives and become the cause of harm." He halted their walking and took Merry's chin in his fingers, looking into his eyes. "Trust can be given freely but when it is taken, it can be lost. Frodo needs friends like you."

He released Merry and stooped to go inside Bag End, but he turned his head when his hand touched the door, saying: "And don't let me catch you listening under the eaves, Master Brandybuck!" He went in and left Merry to close the door.

⌂

Once Merry had caught up with his peers at dinner, he seemed more like his name suggested; cheerful and relaxed. Gandalf had said nothing more to him or anyone about what they had discussed in the garden. Soon all the young hobbits were singing gaily, while Bilbo and Gandalf were smoking their pipes. The Dwarves got out their instruments and were playing the simple tunes that the hobbits were singing.

"Do all Dwarves know how to play music?" asked Frodo. He politely asked to handle one of the violins after they had finished their song. It was a beautiful instrument, covered with clever engravings of animals and plants. The strings were taunt and slightly gummy where the bow had left traces of rosin; they whined softly as he brushed a thumb over where they spanned the soundbox.

"Some are more skilled than others, and some would do better to stay with the pick or spade!" said Kairin, the Dwarf who had loaned Frodo his violin. "It is necessary for a Dwarf to be able to do more than mine gems or craft stones. How can you praise the work of another's hands or your own, if you have no tongue to sing with? This is my tongue," he said, waving the bow. "I sing better with it than the one I was born with!"

"And his cooking is far superior to his fiddle-playing, as you have observed," joked Frigg, whose pert retort was rewarded with a playful lick with the bow in question. The Dwarves all laughed and began to play a new tune, one that the young hobbits had never heard before. It was low and slow and full of longing, calling to the imagination visions of mountains and vistas such as their young minds had never seen.

Merry saw that Gandalf and Bilbo were busy in soft talk, over by the hearth where their voices wouldn't disrupt the music. He glanced at Pippin; he was both eager and reluctant to share what had happened between him and the wizard outside, but his cousin was succumbing to the restful music; his eyes were closed and his head nodding. Merry shifted so that the young Took's head could rest against his shoulder. The sleepiness that he had thought beyond him that night stole over him, and when the song ended he found himself blinking and yawning.

Kairin rose and bowed to him with a laugh. "See, brother Dwarves; we have rendered them unconscious with the poor quality of our playing. That was supposed to be a stirring ballad, not a lullaby!"

Merry chuckled. "Forgive us! Pip and I have had a long ride today. We should find our beds before we fall asleep here on the parlour floor! Thank you so much for dinner and the music. I have never heard such wonderful playing—nor tasted better food." He nudged Pippin and they both stood and bowed, thanking Bilbo too, before Frodo led them to the room where they were bedding down.

Samwise bade them goodnight in the hall. "My Gaffer is expecting me back in the hole tonight, Master Frodo," he said. "Shall I call tomorrow, after my morning chores?"

"Thank you, Sam, yes... if your Gaffer can spare you. I must help Bilbo write out the invitations tomorrow but if you could, I am guessing Merry and Pippin might enjoy a little fishing expedition. If you go along, we're sure to have a few good big fish to cook for supper. I'm guessing Frerín can do marvelous things with a few trout!"

"My mouth's waterin' just imagining it, sir!" Sam said, bowing and leaving the smial. He had caught Merry's nod and grin behind Frodo's back, and knew that he'd have an earful while they were resting on the banks of the Water tomorrow.

"And now you two! Nearly asleep standing up, you are!" Frodo smiled and led them to his own room. "The other guest rooms are filled with Dwarves and a Wizard, so I am afraid you'll have to make yourselves comfortable in my room for your visit." Two pallets had been somehow wedged into the room, but neither of Frodo's guests complained. The sight of the soft blankets were so inviting that they drew words of praise from both them, in spite of their weariness. They swiftly stripped off their clothes and put on the nightshirts that Frodo had lain out on their bunks and were sound asleep minutes after touching their curly-haired heads to the down-stuffed pillows.

Frodo lay awake for a little while longer, listening to the sounds of the Dwarves' playing. He could hear Gandalf and Bilbo's voices rising and falling gently beneath the music, though he could not make out what they were saying. He thought about the dreams that he had mentioned to Gandalf earlier that day, wondering what he would tell the Wizard when he got another chance to talk to him. Yawning, he mused that he ought perhaps to write them down in a journal, so that he would not forget them. They lingered in his mind like Elvish singing.

With that pleasant thought foremost in his mind, he closed his eyes slowly and sighed, enveloped at last in another dream.


	3. Chapter 3 Invitations

**Chapter 3  
**_in five parts_

**Eating Worms**

A young hobbit trotted up to the round green door of Bag End, set his bucket of bait down and leaned the three ash fishing-poles he had been carrying against the thick bushes. He tapped politely on the brass knocker and waited, hands behind his back.

The door opened. "Samwise!" Frodo swung the door open. "Come inside. Merry and Pippin are almost ready. Bilbo is packing a few bites for a tea-time meal for you lads."

"Thank you, Mr. Frodo!" Sam ducked an awkward bow. "I'd best wait out here, sir. I've been a-working in the garden all morning, and I might track dirt on Mr. Bilbo's clean floor."

Frodo smiled and stepped outside. "Well, then I'll wait with you. It's a fine enough weather for a September and I haven't seen the sun all day for the chores Bilbo has had me running." Frodo seated himself on the bench that overlooked the field above the Water, indicating with a nod that Sam should join him.

"Aye, sir," Sam smiled and sat down. "Everyone is starting to get excited about Mr. Bilbo's and your Party. There were four carts what rolled past this door yesterday, and two more already this morning!"

"Are you looking forward to the Party, Sam?"

"Well, Mr. Frodo, I must say that I am. Like most folks, I am keeping an eye on my mailbox for an invitation!"

Frodo laughed and shook his head. "You know that I'd never have a party that you and your family weren't invited to. You must all come! Invitation or not, if you aren't there I shall bring the entire party to Number Three Bagshot Row, to look for you!"

Sam chuckled and nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll be there, and so will my Gaffer. The girls... my sisters, I mean, are all making new dresses for themselves."

"They will be the loveliest lasses at the dancing, I am sure." Frodo leaned back, and with a mischievous gleam lighting his eye he added, "Except, perhaps, for Miss Cotton."

Sam's entire face turned scarlet, and he ducked his head again. Frodo would have said more, but at that moment the front door opened and spilled out two young hobbits, dressed in old clothes and ready to go fishing. Frodo held his tongue, but he was still smiling as he waved at the lads as they walked down toward the Water.

For some time he had been trying to think of a way to let Sam know that Rosie was saving her heart for him and him alone, but he had given her his word not to say anything to Sam. Whenever he had contrived to bring them together, Sam became tongue-tied and managed to slip away.

Frodo knew that Rosie would wait forever if necessary, but he was more impatient. There must be a way to give encouragement to the shy gardener without breaking his promise to his friend Rosie. Maybe he could arrange for something to happen next Thursday, at the Party...

He watched his friends until they disappeared beneath the shady trees that clustered thickly along the edge of the little river; then he went inside and closed the door.

⌂

"Sam! Have I got a tale to tell you!" Merry said in a whispered undertone as they hurried toward their favourite fishing hole. Pippin trotted behind the two other lads, swinging the bait bucket and trying to hear what they were saying, even though he already knew the things that Merry was telling to Sam.

Merry told of the meeting with the old man in the garden the previous day. "Gandalf knows about... us?" Sam's knees grew weak in fear and he nearly stumbled; Merry caught his arm and saved him from a tumble. "I wouldn't want Mr. Gandalf to catch me a-listenin' in on Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo! He's a Wizard and rather hasty and quick-tempered. He might light me like a sky-rocket and blow my ashes all over the Hill before he knew what's been done." Sam looked around carefully, afraid Gandalf could hear them somehow.

"Don't worry, Sam! Gandalf said nothing about it to Bilbo or Frodo, or else I am sure they would have said something to me and Pip. And he's made no more mention of it since. I think we should try to question him ourselves. He appears to be sympathetic to our cause."

Sam's eyes rolled up and he sat down heavily when they reached their fishing spot. "Mr. Merry, you are the soul of bravery! Surely Mr. Gandalf would curse us for being nosy and for... spying... on Mr. Bilbo?"

"He knows we do not mean any harm, Sam. I'll be careful, I promise. And I won't mention that you are one of the Conspirators."

Sam grimaced. "I wish you wouldn't call us that, Mr. Merry, so I do!" Merry laughed at him.

Pippin caught them up and thumped the bucket of bait down in front of them. "Bait my line for me, Merry? I hate touching those squishy worms!"

Merry sighed and complied, saying, "Okay, Pippin, but you are going to have to learn to do this soon. You might starve to death someday, if you can't do it for yourself."

Sam nodded wisely. "As my Gaffer says, 'Give a hobbit a fish and you'll have fed him for a day. Teach a hobbit to fish and you'll feed him for a lifetime, and his family, too.' You don't seem to mind handling the fish. My Gaffer showed you how to clean them when you came up on your last visit, didn't he?"

"That's different," said Pippin. He accepted his baited hook from Merry with a 'thank'ee' and cast his line into the water. "I am going to eat the fish. If I ever get hungry enough to eat the worms, I am pretty sure I will muster the courage to bait a hook!"

They sat in peace for a few hours, catching only a few small fish at first. It was just after mid-day and warm; not the best time for catching yet. After they shared out their meal at tea-time, they settled back and took light naps, the strings of their lines turned around their toes so they could feel when they got a bite. As the sun westered and the insects began to skate across the calm surface of the Water, their lines began to draw taunt more frequently, and soon each had caught a fair number of fish. They toted them triumphantly back to Bag End.

Gran, the Dwarf who had cared for Pippin's pony after he had arrived yesterday, met them at the garden gate. He eagerly took the fish from them and thanked them profusely.

"I'll see these fixed up a treat for you lads! Go get washed up and ask Frerín for a snack to tide you over, and I'll bring in the grille after a while! Go right inside; Bilbo and his nephew are out at the moment, but I think Gandalf is within. Go on, now!"

Merry had to drag Sam inside with him. "He doesn't know... he doesn't know..." the terrified gardener-lad was muttering to himself. Merry hushed him and smiled encouragingly.

Gandalf was sitting in the parlor, his long robes overflowing the biggest chair that Bilbo owned, one that the hobbit had had build especially for his tall guest. He was watching out the window that opened over the bright garden, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. When the hobbit lads walked in, he returned their greetings with a nod, then exhaled three rings of smoke, each a different colour. They drifted over to hover above the heads of the three hobbits, and then disappeared slowly.

"Hullo, my young friends!" said the Wizard. "Did you catch anything besides forty winks on the riverbank?"

"Yes, Mr. Gandalf, sir," said Pippin. "I caught the most fish, but Sam caught the biggest one!"

"Excellent! I look forward to what Frerín's crew will do to prepare them. Bilbo and Frodo should be back soon. They went for a walk to enjoy the rest of the day. Shall we see if Frerín has any biscuits and jam for hungry fishermen to nibble on?" Gandalf made as if to rise from his chair, but Merry forestalled him, sitting beside him and touching his sleeve. "What is it, Master Brandybuck?" Gandalf asked.

"Sir, I was wondering..." Merry's thoughts were flying, and he glanced over and caught Sam's eye. His right eyelid flicked a wink at his nervous friend. "I am awful worried about Cousin Frodo!"

Gandalf frowned with his eyebrows at the hobbit. "Why are you worried about Frodo?"

"Well... he's... getting so old! And he's not as talkative as once he was. Pippin and I are afraid that he..." Merry drew a deep breath and whispered, "He might go on an adventure without us! You know, take after our Cousin Bilbo." Merry glanced around and leaned close to Gandalf's ear and said softly, "You aren't planning on taking him away with all these Dwarves, like you did Cousin Bilbo so many years ago, are you?" Merry made a very convincing face, both sad and worried, so that Sam had to cough to cover his smile.

Pippin came foreword as if on cue. "Mr. Gandalf, sir! Please don't take Frodo away and let a dragon breathe on him! He's not as smart as Cousin Bilbo... not yet!"

Gandalf laughed gently and patted the hobbits on their heads. "Is that what this is all about? My dear hobbits, I promise that I am not planning to do anything of the sort. I am here in a purely recreational capacity; to help celebrate my dear friends' birthdays and to set burning a few bowls of pipeweed."

"Very good, Mr. Gandalf!" injected Pippin, "I would hope that if you learned anything about Frodo making plans to go away, you'd be sure to tell his best friends, so that we could help him. You know how silly Frodo is... he'd try to sneak off alone, and then where would that leave him?"

Gandalf tapped the proud little Took on the chin. "With good friends like you and Master Merry, and steadfast companions such as Samwise, I am sure Frodo would never dream of leaving the Shire without you at his side! Not that I see him doing such a thing at all." Gandalf chewed on his pipe for a moment before he spoke again in his great, gentle voice, "Frodo will have need of good friends in the upcoming days. I trust that your vigilance will not fall off, now that I have set your minds at peace?"

"What do you mean, Mr. Gandalf?" asked Merry.

The front door swung open at that moment, and Merry got no more answer that a twinkle in the Wizard's eye as Frodo and Bilbo walked into the parlour, leaning their walking staffs against the wall.

"Well, we seem to have interrupted a meeting of some kind!" said Frodo merrily. He looked at the faces of his friends and laughed at their speechlessness. "If you are planning a surprise party, I am afraid we already know about it!"

Bilbo chuckled and slapped him on the back. "Did you lads catch anything today?"

Merry and Pippin exchanged looks with Sam, and then with Gandalf, who was smoking and being conspicuously quiet. "Oh, we came home with the bait, the catch, and the kindling!" Merry exclaimed. "How was your walk, dear cousins?"

They went into the kitchen in pursuit of a snack before supper. Bilbo paused beside Gandalf's chair and gave the Wizard an inquiring glare.

"They haven't a clue that you are going away, dear Bilbo, and if they have," the old man said softly, "then they are smarter and shiftier than I think they are!"

"Good!" said Bilbo, relaxing a little. "I still mean to have my little joke on Thursday, and it wouldn't do to have it spoilt prematurely."

**II**

**Sealing Wax and Golden Ink**

Frodo woke softly with sunlight brushing his face, reaching past the round window through the hanging nasturians. Lying completely still, he tried to recapture what he had seen while roaming in the fields of his dreams; the images eluded his grasping thought, sinking down in that restful well from where the draught of sleep was drawn.

In the days that had passed since he had first questioned Gandalf concerning his dreams, Frodo had been careful to jot down everything he could remember each morning, hoping to have a moment to discuss them privately. So far, they had all been too busy -- even Gandalf was lending his help to Bilbo in the planning of the party. Frodo wondered if today he might be able to steal a few moments with the wise old man.

Frodo heard faint murmuring; voices muffled and indistinct. He raised his head and saw Merry and Pippin lying side-by-side on the floor where they had been sleeping. They had drawn a blanket over their heads and were conversing in whispers; Frodo could not quite hear what they were saying.

He raised a pillow from his bed and tossed it onto the top of their make-shift tent. "Hey!" the two indignant hobbits cried, kicking free of the blankets amid their laughter.

"Why didn't you wake me up, sillies? It must be after 8 o'clock -- the sun is full up!" Frodo sat up and stretched.

Merry threw the pillow back, hoping to catch Frodo unaware. But Cousin Frodo was expecting this; he caught the pillow and set it behind him, leaning back with eyes closed as if he intended to go back to sleep. Merry reached slowly for Pippin's pillow, saying, "Bilbo said not to wake you yet." He hauled back his arm to throw the pillow with all his force. Pippin stifled a giggle.

Frodo opened one eye to pin his Brandybuck cousin with a blue glare. "You'll regret it if you do..." he said softly, a smile twitching on the corners of his mouth.

Merry laughed and gently buffeted Pippin with the pillow instead, for the poorly-timed snicker that had given him away. "The Master said he wants you well-rested for a long day's work!"

Frodo groaned and drew his coverlets over his head in mock despair. Pippin tickled his feet left exposed under the quilts.

"Stop! Stop, stop, you terrible Took! I am awake, already!" Frodo's laughter bubbled out.

"Then get up, old boy! We've been waiting for you so we can have some breakfast together. Cousin Bilbo has chores of us as well, and you are holding up progress! Have you forgotten that this is also your birthday party we are helping to prepare?"

"Well! I do beg your pardon, Peregrin Thain!" exclaimed Frodo, deftly netting the young Took with the blankets. He leapt off of the bed and grabbed his robe. While Frodo washed and dressed, Merry kept Pippin pinned under the blanket, tickling hand or foot whenever the younger hobbit tried to free himself.

"Whose side are you on, Merry?" exclaimed Pippin, panting and giggling aloud. There was no answer. "Merry? Frodo?" Pippin peeked cautiously out from under the blanket and found that his older cousins had quietly quit the room, leaving the door open. "Hey! Save some breakfast for me...!" He flipped the covers away and jumped to the floor, running to the kitchen.

An hour later, they were all fed, washed, and ready to work. There was a conspicuous absence of Dwarves about the smial. When Frodo asked where Frerín might be, Bilbo told him that the Dwarf chef was working with his companions to construct the open-air hearth in the field where the Party would occur.

"Our work today is to write out a few invitations, Frodo-lad." Bilbo held out a list of names on a rolled parchment. When he opened the scroll it unraveled to an alarming length, reaching the floor and rolling for several feet.

Frodo grinned wistfully, "We're going to need more ink..."

"Not a problem! I have received a shipment of special ink, just for this occasion. Now, if you've finished dawdling, let's go to it! Merry, you and Pippin will assist us until after lunch. Then the two of you shall be on door detail, for I intend to keep everyone out of this smial who is not integral to our purposes!"

Merry and Pippin exchanged blank looks. Bilbo laughed and mussed their hair. "If anyone comes calling, I want you to answer the door with 'I am terribly sorry, but the Master and his nephew are not home today!'—even if we are! I am sure you two are not above a little misdirection of facts for a good cause, eh?" They nodded eagerly, though Merry's face turned a shade of shameful red.

"Will Gandalf be helping us, too?" asked Frodo. He hadn't noticed Merry's loss of composure; he was opening the bundle of supplies that Bilbo had handed him.

"Gandalf has risen early and wandered off, doing his own inscrutable business. I imagine he'll turn up for around tea-time... or for dinner at the latest. Frigg is roasting mutton tonight, and I believe it is one of Gandalf's favourite dishes. Which reminds me: Don't let me forget to place an order with Mrs. Cotton for some of her delightful mint jelly. I am sure that the last of our stock will be exhausted tonight. In fact, I need several things from town—" he groped in his pockets for another list, which he could not find. "Well, first things first; come on, lads!"

They got a good start on the letters. Bilbo had obtained not only a fine golden ink for the party invitations, but also reams of beautiful cream-coloured paper, heavy and smooth, and new swan-feather quills. Frodo found writing on the new paper a thrill... until after his second hour of bending over his drafting desk. His back began to ache and his fingers to cramp. He set his quill down frequently and flexed his hand, but he kept at it doggedly. Bilbo ticked off the names as they went down the list.

Bilbo patted his nephew encouragingly on the shoulder whenever he paused. Frodo wrote out the text of the invitation, and then he would hand it carefully to Bilbo. Bilbo would sign them, with a flourish, and sprinkle fine crystalline sand over them which dried up the excess ink. After the ink was set the paper was then passed over to Merry, whose job it was to fold it neatly and seal it with wax. Peregrin waited beside him to press the cooling wax with a signet, leaving a bas-relief print of a small but finely detailed dragon; a gift to Bilbo from King Daín for his upcoming celebration.

Bilbo had tried to tease his young cousin about his job. "I know you don't believe in dragons, Peregrin, but doesn't it make a nice impression?" He winked at Frodo.

"Oh, I believe in dragons now, Cousin Bilbo!" exclaimed Pippin, blowing gently on the wax to cool it faster. "Frodo showed me a real one!"

"Did he now?" Bilbo begged the tale of him which, after receiving a nod from Frodo, Pippin told with relish; of their adventure to Scary and the rock dragon they had seen. "I'm still not convinced about these Trolls you make tales about, though, Bilbo, sir," added Pippin, screwing his face up in a doubtful scowl, "but I'll let you go on the dragons... for now." Bilbo and the others laughed.

Time passed quickly with cheerful talk and when the mid-day hour rolled around, the pile of letters they had completed filled two large sacks. Bilbo applauded as Frodo slowly finished the invitation he was working on.

"That's enough for now, lads!" Bilbo signed it and passed it to Merry. "Now, if you all will be so kind as to get this lot to the Post, I shall get about setting up lunch for us. We've worked straight through elevenses, and we've more to accomplish on this day! Frodo, here's that list of things I need, which you can get from the trading post while your cousins take down the mail. Come back straight away!" He handed Frodo a small purse and the paper. "Bring back with you the dried herbs and a small packet of salt, my lad, and ask Mr. Bracegirdle to have the rest delivered tomorrow."

"Yes, Uncle!" Frodo said, eager to get up and move around after sitting still for so long. He and Merry and Pippin all but ran from the room. Pippin slung his bag over his shoulder, and it bumped against his heels as he hurried after his longer-legged cousins.

"Have you got that alright, Pippin?" asked Frodo, opening the door for his friends. "I could carry it for you..."

"No, Frodo! It's not too heavy, it's just bulky. I got it now!" Peregrin grinned and hefted the bag high in his arms. "But if you could see for me, so I don't run into anyone...?" Pippin's curls were barely visible over the mail-bag.

Frodo laughed and let the proud little Took walk ahead of him, watching for obstacles and steering him with words, "Go left, Pip... no, your other left!" when he started to stray. Merry strolled next to Frodo, his own burden borne easily on his strong shoulder. Together they walked down the road and toward the bridge that spanned the Water next to the mill.

Merry was expressing his excitement about the party, plying the playfully reticent Frodo about details that were not readily forthcoming. "You'll just have to wait and see, like everyone else," Frodo would say, with an irritating grin. Merry hopped on one foot and feigned kicking his stubborn cousin on the seat of his trousers if he wouldn't tell. Frodo chuckled and side-stepped him.

There was no sign of Ted when the passed the mill. Neither Frodo or Merry said anything, but they both were watching, even as they laughed and joked. Frodo placed a hand on Pippin's head to steer him over the bridge. Once they reached the other side and stepped from the stone to the warm grass, each hobbit heaved a sigh of relief.

Frodo waved to them to go on without him. "I'm off to Mr. Bracegirdle's trading post, lads. Tote those bags down to the Post Office, then head back to Bag End. I'll be along behind... if I don't beat you getting back!"

"No road, Frodo!" Merry refused firmly. "I'll meet you right here on this spot and we'll walk back up the Hill together." Frodo frowned and began to protest, but Merry shook his head. "I'm not giving you the chance to eat my lunch as well as your own!" He offered his cousin a stubborn smile. Pippin nodded his head in agreement, causing his unruly curls to fall over his forehead into his eyes. His hands were still full, so he blinked and twitched and tried to blow his bangs back.

Frodo grinned and cuffed Merry lightly on the shoulder. "Very well!" He reached out and combed Pippin's hair back helpfully. "As you wish, my friends! Mind each other and I'll see you both back here directly."

He turned toward the market and made for the trading post, whistling under his breath and grateful to feel the sunlight on his face. He nodded to those folks he passed, offering polite greetings to everyone he met.

**III**

**Purchase of Patience**

Frodo waited outside the door of Bracegirdle's Trading Post for two ladies to exit, followed by Mr. Bracegirdle's hired lad, his arms full of paper-wrapped parcels. He offered them a gentlemanly bow as they passed. The younger lady giggled and hurried past, while the older hobbit-woman smiled slightly and inclined her head, but her cheeks turned as pink as her companion's when she met Frodo's eyes.

Frodo stepped inside, assailed by the scents of spices. Mr. Gabrin Bracegirdle was there himself today; a round, jolly fellow who ran his business seeming for the sheer joy of talking to everyone in town, thus earning himself the name shortening of Gabby. He was speaking now to a trio of hobbits who were lingering around his hogsheads of beer, debating the various virtues of Westfarthing porter against the lighter Eastfarthing ales. They all looked up when Frodo came in, and Gabby called out an enthusiastic greeting.

"Oi, there, Young Master Baggins! Come in, come in! What can I get for you today? Need anything for that party you're planning up the Hill?" The hobbits listening murmured excitedly.

"As a matter of fact," Frodo said genially, "we do indeed! Bilbo sent me down with a list, and asked if you could arrange to have a delivery made tomorrow morning?" Frodo handed him the folded parchment.

Gabby Bracegirdle's eyebrows ascended into his thinning hairline. "Gracious goodness! Doesn't want much, does he? This will deplete half my store!" The shop-keeper looked up from surprise that was swiftly evolving into delight.

"We realize that it is rather a lot, Mr. Bracegirdle," Frodo said, diplomatically reaching into his belt for the coin purse that Bilbo had given him. He passed it to the hobbit. "I hope that it doesn't inconvenience your other customers..."

"Finally spilling some of that gold around the Shire, eh?" one of the hobbits leaning against the hogshead said. His companions stared at him, for his tone was not altogether civil. "Been ordering stuff from Outside for months, and stowing it away in that great hill, so they have. Not a penny spent in their own lands. Don't think that is quite right."

Frodo opened his mouth to defend Bilbo, but Gabby's tongue was quicker. "That's not true t'all, Mr. Thatcher! The Bagginses of the Hill are among my best customers!"

"Thank you, Mr. Bracegirdle," Frodo said. He turned to the hobbit who had spoken, who still looked unconvinced and agitated. "My Uncle and I are being careful that we don't overburden the patterns of trade in Hobbiton and Bywater, Mr. Thatcher. We plan to spread our spending around, to obtain the things we shall need that are of a more perishable nature. Mr. Bracegirdle," Frodo turned back to his business, considering the matter closed, "have you, by any chance, any of that fine minted jelly that Madame Cotton makes..."

But Mr. Thatcher wasn't through. "We don't need your ill-gotten gold, nor your high-and-mighty airs, Baggins!" The two hobbits standing near him drifted away, suddenly interested in the variety of spun cotton dry-goods that Mr. Bracegirdle had in store. The belligerent hobbit stepped one pace closer to Frodo, as if trying to intimidate him.

Frodo did not look at him or step back. He glanced down at the countertop, polished to a fine glossy finish, and then he looked back up at Mr. Bracegirdle. The shop-hobbit was flushed with embarrassment, and little beads of perspiration were breaking out on his balding pate.

Frodo offered him a gentle smile. "... That Madame Cotton makes so efficiently? No? Well, I will have to call on her then. Could I have a small bag of salt and a couple of other things to tide us over until the delivery...?" Frodo ignored Thatcher, moving about and looking over the wares displayed on the shelves around the shop. After a moment Thatcher, either thinking his point had been adequately made or surrendering to Frodo's indifference, stalked out of the trading post, muttering. His two friends did not follow him.

Frodo picked out some rock candy for Pippin and a sample of a new strain of pipeweed that one of the helpful hobbits hanging around in the shop recommended; Frodo knew Merry would enjoy trying something new. He stood for a moment considering a rack of hair ribbons, wondering if Rosie would like something special to wear for the party, and wondering also how he could deliver it to her without her parents or anyone else seeing. He wanted to make sure she caught Sam's eye at the Party. What was Sam's favourite colour...?

"I am so terribly sorry, Mr. Baggins!" said Gabby. The hobbit was beside himself with distress, smoothing his apron across his chest in a nervous manner. "Ol' Thatch is a hearty soul, but he's given to listening to gossip, so he is! But I swear, sir, no such thing has been so much as whispered in my store!"

"That's all right, Mr. Bracegirdle," Frodo offered him a coin from his own purse for the sweets and the pipeweed, but the shopkeeper refused to take it. Frodo laid the coin on the counter. "Hobbits talk and hobbits listen, but some do more of the former than the latter! There is no offense taken, sir. Be at ease. We'll be expecting to receive tomorrow around 10 o'clock. Is that acceptable?"

"Yes, sir! Very good… and good day to you, Mr. Baggins!"

Frodo nodded politely to the other hobbits, and then stepped out with his paper-wrapped parcel. He walked directly to the bridge, hoping that Merry and Pippin had not been delayed at the Post Office.

**IV**

**Post Offence**

Merry opened the door and held it wide so that Pippin could walk through. He swung his own sack of mail down from his shoulder and set it carefully on the clean-swept floor. There was a single clerk standing behind the desk that served as a counter; his eyes were wide and round as he stared at the sacks of letters.

Pippin heaved his bag onto the desk, and Merry offered the startled hobbit a salute. "Hullo! These are from Master Baggins, to be posted immediately, please," Merry said, lifting his bag and setting it next to Pippin's.

The hobbit switched his stare from the mail to Merry, and said nothing.

"Hullo? This is the Post Office, yes? Mr. Baggins sent us..."

"We normally retrieve the mail as we make deliveries, sir." The hobbit prodded one bag with a cautious finger, as if he feared that they contained wild animals instead of letters.

"Of course," Merry said, softening his tone a little from his usual confident brogue. "Mr. Baggins will be sending rather a lot of letters in the next few days, and expecting replies as well. He thought that the mail-carrier might not appreciate having to tote so much back down the hill—at least without a courteous warning."

The clerk sniffed and nodded. "Mr. Baggins is a polite fellow. Forgive me for being so guarded; it is unusual to handle so much mail at one time. My name is Reul Whitfoot. You're a Brandybuck, aren't you?" Merry nodded. "Yes, I recognize the accent now. How is Master Rorimac these days?"

Merry made polite conversation with the now receptive hobbit as he sorted the envelopes. He made approving noises about the clearly written addresses and efficient sealing. There were soon five tall stacks of envelopes on the desk, one for each Farthing and one for across the Brandywine.

"There's to be more, you say?" Reul asked, his face becoming a little pale.

"Yes, indeed!" injected Pippin. He was waiting as politely as he could, listening to the older hobbits talking, but the promise of lunch was wearing thin his manners. He took Merry's hand and tugged on it. "We should get back, Merry. Frodo'll be waiting..."

Reul noted Pippin with a lift of his eyebrow. "A Bucklander and a Took?" he shook his head a little, then he said to Merry, "I'll notify the Post Master of this. Good day to you both!" They left Reul muttering to himself about needing to hire some more postmen and made their way back toward the place they had agreed to meet Frodo.

As they walked, they passed among the carts and tables of the Market. Pippin's nose picked up among the smells of the bustling venders a delicious scent, and he looked up at his cousin with begging eyes. "O, Merry! Fresh-baked muffins! Couldn't we...?"

"No, Pippin!" Merry tweaked his nose gently, "You'll spoil your appetite for lunch."

Pippin looked at him with a tilt to his head and a laughing eye, "Me? Spoil my appetite? Forsooth! At least we could pick up something for tea-time. That would be polite, wouldn't it?"

Merry laughed and searched his pockets. "All right! I have a copper or two on me. Let's be quick, though."

"Yea!" Pippin ran ahead, but stopped and held open the door to the bakery for Merry.

The smell inside the shop was even more delicious that coming across the square. A row of fresh fruit pies were cooling on the marble-topped counter, each resting on a woven mat. A pretty, cheerful-looking lass in a flour-stained apron greeted them.

"What may I do to serve you gentlehobbits today?" she asked, winking at Pippin. Merry was a little shocked to see the lad blush and duck his head.

"We would like... er, what would we like? Pippin?" Pippin pointed toward the case against the wall. A basket of fresh cranberry muffins wrapped in checkered cloth was his desire, but he seemed to have lost his tongue.

Merry smiled and resisted an urge to tease his little cousin. "A basket of those heavenly muffins, please. Do you have any scones today? I think those are Frodo's favourites, right, Pip?"

Pippin nodded, and then hid from the pretty maiden behind Merry.

"Are these for Master Baggins and his nephew?" she asked, wrapping up their purchases. "Would you both be dears and take them this as well?" She added two loaves of dark rye bread to their parcel. "Mr. Baggins was kind enough to share one of his recipes with my father some time back, and we have not had a chance to express our gratitude. Tell him Mel the Baker's daughter said 'thank you, sir'."

"I will. And thank you, miss! Good day!" Merry picked up the basket and headed toward the door. Pippin was already outside.

Merry stared down at him. "What's got into you, Took? You can't be that hungry yet!"

Pippin shook his head, accepting the muffin that Merry offered him from the basket. "I'm sorry, cousin! I don't know what is wrong with me; sometimes girls make me... nervous."

Merry pinched a corner off of Pip's pastry. "Sounds to me that there is nothing wrong with you at all, my lad!"

They walked on to the bridge, but Frodo was not there yet. They shared another muffin between them as they waited, sitting on the stone kerb and swinging their feet over the slow-flowing Water.

**V**

**Special Delivery**

Frodo intended to go directly to the bridge, but before he had gone more than ten paces from Bracegirdle's, a voice hailed him in the crowded marketplace. He paused and searched for the speaker, his height making it a little easier for him to see past all the curly heads.

"Frodo! Frodo, wait!" A little hobbit-lad was running through the crowd, weaving through the carts and baskets. He dashed up to Frodo and stopped, his hands on his knees as he puffed for breath.

"Nibs?" Frodo recognized Rosie's youngest brother. His name was Carl, but as no one ever called him that, not even his mother, he wouldn't even answer to his given name anymore.

"Aye... Mr. Frodo... sir!" Nibs gasped. He took Frodo's hand and began to pull on him. "Come!"

"Where are we going, Nibs? I must be getting back to the Hill. Is something wrong?" Worry touched his heart like a small sharp needle.

"'s a secret!" the serious little hobbit-fry whispered. Frodo allowed himself to be towed around the corner of the dry-goods shop, where there were stacked several bales of cotton and a couple of iron-bound casks.

"Frodo?" Someone was hiding behind one of the barrels. They stood up and pushed back the hood of their cloak.

"Rosie?" Frodo was very surprised. He glanced around to make sure he had not been followed. "What's the matter?"

Nibs held out his little hand. "I brought him! Canna have it now?" Rosie gave her young brother his payment: a large round sugar cookie.

"Now, Nibs... you'll get another after supper, as long as no one ever hears about this! Promise?" Nibs shook his head rapidly, his sandy hair tossing like a mop. He stuffed the cookie in his mouth and ran off.

"Thanks for coming, Frodo. I wasn't sure when I would get a chance to see you. You've been so busy! Are you all right? How is Bilbo?"

Frodo smiled at his friend, relieved that there was no catastrophe and also pleased that she cared about him and his uncle. "We are both fine, Rose. We're just getting ready for next Thursday. You are coming to the party, aren't you?"

Rosie's smile was bright and coy, "I might... if I get an invitation."

"Of course you will! I will deliver it myself! I will be coming by soon to visit your mother on an errand for Bilbo... I'll bring your invitation with me, okay?"

"Okay, but not just for me, right?" Rosie lowered her eyes, roses creeping across her face. Frodo thought she looked even more sweet when she blushed.

"For the whole Cotton household. You must all come, but especially you, Rosie. I have it on very good authority that a certain young hobbit will be there... and you promised to dance with me, remember?" Frodo's smile was teasing, and he placed a hand over his heart as if worried that it would break if she denied him her favour.

Rosie laughed. "I remember well! But you haven't been wagging your tongue, have you Frodo?" She shook a finger at him, not able to completely contain her laughter at his woeful expression.

"I promised not to say anything to Sam, and I will keep my promise. It is hard sometimes, though." Frodo sighed.

"Thank you, Frodo!" Rose leaned in and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. "You are my best friend! I will see you later!" She gave him a sunny smile and hurried away behind the buildings. Nibs was waiting for her by the stile that forded the fence around Farmer Giles's field, picking cookie crumbs off of his tunic.

Frodo watched them until they disappeared beyond the slope of the hills. He turned his mind back to the idea of a gift for her. She was so kind, and such a good friend...

Frodo walked back toward the bridge, resisting the urge to follow his nose toward Mel's bakery. Lunch would ready, once he got back up the hill and Merry and Pippin were be waiting for him.

He spotted them easily where they were sitting on the bridge. He began to trot toward them, then halted suddenly as a large waggon swung around the market on the road toward Bag End. He paused and stared at it, then gave a whoop of delight. He waved excitedly at his cousins and broke into a run, his package tucked beneath his arm.

For the waggon was of a strange design, and the driver wore his cloak and hood even in the warm September noon. Frodo suddenly knew that it was an Elf, and the waggon must therefore be from Rivendell!

"Merry! Pip! Did you see?" he was breathless in his excitement.

Merry and Pippin had stood on the kerb as the waggon passed, their faces full of wonder. "What is in the waggon, Frodo?" Pippin asked, as his cousin seized him by the waist and set him on the road before he fell off the bridge into the Water.

"I don't know... yet. Let's take the shortcut! We'll get to Bag End before the waggon! Come on!"

They raced toward home. Though lightly burdened, they arrived the same moment that the waggon rolled to a stop at the white gate near the Party Field. The horses pulling the waggon moved with grace and speed and were not even lathered after the climb up the Hill. Frodo stroked their great noses with his small hands.

Bilbo had come out and was speaking to the driver. He turned to his nephew and said, "Frodo-lad! There you are... did you get the... yes, excellent!" Bilbo saw Frodo's bundle of spices. "Get you all inside and have lunch; it is sitting ready on the dining table. I will be a few moments here, settling the waggon."

"Do you need our help?" Frodo was staring at the waggon with a hunger that had nothing to do with his belly, and Merry was entranced by the tall slim figure in the hooded cloak that stood next to the buckboard. Pippin was already inside Bag End. His curiosity could wait until his stomach was full.

"No, not now. Later, after you lad eat." Frodo obeyed with a touch of reluctance. "Go on, Frodo!" Bilbo laughed. He reached up and mussed Frodo's hair (Frodo had grown taller than him some years ago). "I promise we won't unload until you are ready to help!"

Frodo burst forth with a great smile and hurried inside. Merry followed on his heels, looking over his shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4 Special Delivery

**Chapter 4 **

**Special Delivery  
**_In four parts_

Three young hobbits have never finished a luncheon faster. If Tibor had not been in the kitchen when they arrived and witnessed the meal being taken, Bilbo might have believed that they had disposed of their food with magic.

They lent their eager hands to unload the waggon. Bilbo lifted out each bundle and handed it to Frodo. The young hobbits formed a little chain from waggon to back-door, aided by a few friendly Dwarves. They passed the marvelously mysterious packages inside, each securely wrapped in paper and bound with strips of silken cloth in every imaginable colour.

Frodo handled the bundles with great care. His curiosity was so great he might have burst; but greater still was his desire to see again the tall figure who had been driving the waggon. There was no sign of him now. When Frodo had asked his uncle where he was, Bilbo had answered with a smile and a wink.

"Oh, you'll probably see him later, my boy. I sent him off to speak with Gandalf while we unloaded." Bilbo leaned in and whispered confidentially in Frodo's ear, "I'm afraid his kind doesn't get on well with the Dwarves. A pity, but there you are..."

Frodo had to wait for an explanation on this; the packages had to be stored away. Merry and Pippin were fingering the wrappings, trying to guess what was within.

"Now, now!" Bilbo admonished them kindly. "Those are for the Party! You wouldn't want to spoil any surprises, would you?"

Pippin nodded excitedly, quite prepared to sacrifice future pleasure for immediate gratification. Merry laughed and locked his arm around his head playfully.

"Get off!" Pippin pushed him away, giggling. "Just one, Cousin Bilbo? Please?" Pippin gave him his most beguiling look, his large green eyes sparkling and eager.

Bilbo laughed as he allowed himself to be persuaded. "Well... since you've all been so helpful... perhaps just one. Hand me that large package with the silver paper. No, with the green ribbon... that's it." He lifted the package, as if trying to guess what was inside by the weight. He held it to his ear and murmured, "Ah!"

"What? What!" Pippin cocked his head and listened also. He could hear absolutely nothing. "What is it?"

"Hmm... let's see. Take that loose string there... and Merry, you take the other. Pull gently, now..."

The two young hobbits pulled carefully on the ribbon. The silk band came free with a soft whisper, and then the paper began to rustle and quiver. They moved to leap back but Bilbo was right behind them, and he put a hand on each of their shoulders so they could watch without fear.

The paper opened itself as if by invisible hands, and inside was a beautiful sculpture made of sugar, spun in the shape of a swan, white as new snow. It had a proud bend to the long slim neck, and each feather of the half-spread wings was so detailed you could count the vanes on the quills. The small black eyes glittered as if it were alive. The hobbits all drew their breath in awe.

Frerín tucked his thumbs behind his belt and regarded the artful confection. "Humph! There's a fine centerpiece! Not many would have the skill to shape something like this. Exquisite, I must confess..."

"I will be sure to pass on the compliment to Lord Elrond's staff," Bilbo said.

"Don't! The last thing we need is another Elf with a big head! I am sure the craftsman knows his work is good."

Frerín's face was a little flushed, but he smiled as Bilbo chided him gently, "Your secret is safe with us!"

The younger hobbits looked confused at the Dwarf's words, and Frodo had a blank look on his face; his eyes were sad. It wrenched Bilbo's heart slightly to see him like that. "I bet it tastes as sweet as it looks. Shall we give it a try?" he said merrily, trying to draw a smile from his nephew.

Frodo looked appalled. "How can we eat something so beautiful?"

"Easy!" Pippin said, licking his lips. "It will be more lovely still, in the mouth and in my memory. Can we really try it, Cousin Bilbo?"

It seemed a small sacrifice to make to the moment, to banish the bleak look on Frodo's face. "Of course! There are going to be many other treats for the Party... more than I can name! Let's enjoy this one now, to make the ones that come later even better!"

They each broke off a light, crisp feather. Frodo placed one on his tongue; it melted instantly. The flavour was not what he expected. It tasted like a summer afternoon in his earliest childhood, chasing butterflies in a field of wildflowers, while his mother and father watched from where they sat together on a picnic blanket. There had been pollen in the air that day, and honeysuckle cups to drink; a warm, happy time that was one of the best he could remember. Tears filled his eyes, and he blinked rapidly.

The faces of each of his friends reflected a similar delight; they were rapt in the blissful flavour. Frodo wondered if it tasted different for each of them, but he knew he couldn't ask. If he had to tell of it, he would cry again. He swallowed and offered Bilbo a smile.

"Thank you, Bilbo. That was indeed delicious. It makes me wonder what other treats we have in store."

Bilbo thought the sight of the smile Frodo gave him tasted even better than the magical candy of the Elves. "Who can tell, my lad, what awaits us tomorrow? Life is an Adventure on an endless Road.

"Now then, what about a spot of tea to chase all this sweetness? Some coffee or beer, Frerín, if you're agreeable?" The Dwarf nodded and everyone moved into the dining room.

Frodo remained behind, fingering the length of green silk ribbon that the package had been bound with. He coiled it carefully and put it in his pocket, smiling gently.  
_  
'Who can tell, indeed,'_ Frodo thought, and followed his friends to have some tea.

**II  
Escaping Bag End**

Bilbo and the Dwarves kept busy through the rest of the day, trying to find room in the already over-flowing pantries to store the packages from Rivendell. Frodo helped for a while, but Bilbo suggested he go take an hour or two for himself.

"You've been working hard, my lad! Everything is on schedule and there is nothing to worry about. You do look rather tired, if you don't mind my saying so. Are your cousins keeping you awake at night with chatter?"

"Not at all, Bilbo!" Frodo hastened to assure him. He did not mention that it was his odd dreams that had been waking him at odd intervals through the nights. He did not want to make Bilbo worry. He smiled at his uncle and said, "A nap would be nice, maybe later. I'd like to jot out a few more invitations first."

While Frodo busied himself in his study composing these special letters, Merry and Pippin were engaged with answering the door; the bell had been ringing non-stop after the arrival of the waggon.

After an hour of turning away traffic, Merry came into Frodo's study and sank in a chair as if he were exhausted. "Do you and Bilbo always have so many visitors? It is a wonder you ever get to shut the door... someone is always coming in or going out!"

"Not always," Frodo smiled, "but there is so much interest about the Party, everyone wants to sneak a peek inside if they can, so they can gossip about it at the Green Dragon later." He poured his cousin a cup of cooling tea from the pot he'd been drinking.

"We should post a message on the wall to keep them updated," joked Merry, who then groaned as the doorbell rang again. "It's Pippin's turn this quarter hour. We have been trading off. May I...?" He gulped down his tea and ate the last two biscuits from the plate. "I'll get you some more, Frodo. Telling everyone who comes calling that you and Bilbo are indisposed is hungry work!"

"Don't worry about it, Merry. I was just about to step out. But if you would, you could fetch some for Pippin. If you're hungry, I am sure he is famished. He might let someone in if they offer him food!"

"You're going out?" Merry looked a little concerned. "I could go with you..."

"No need, Merry. You and Pippin will have your hands full, and I need to run this errand." Frodo slipped on his coat and straightened his cuffs. "I'll be back before dinner. Help Bilbo in anyway you can, please." He put the letters in his pocket.

"All right, Frodo."

"And Merry, have you seen anything of Gandalf today? Or that tall driver that arrived on the last waggon?"

"No, I haven't. Why did Bilbo say that about him… that his kind doesn't get on well with Dwarves? Is he an Elf?" Merry watched his cousin's face closely. Ever since that night he had seen Frodo talking to the Elves, when they had gone out camping and Frodo believed everyone was asleep, Merry had been fascinated and a little afraid of leaving Frodo alone.

Merry's obsession about Bilbo and his secret golden ring was slowly becoming replaced by a fear that one day Frodo would just be gone—gone away with the Elves he appeared to love so much.

Frodo rolled his shoulders in a shrug as he considered Merry's questions. "I assume that he is an Elf, Merry, but I don't know for sure. Bilbo told me that there is a lot of history between Elves and Dwarves, but most of it is so long ago that it doesn't make sense that they are still angry. Elves have long lives, and the ire of a Dwarf is as long as his family tree is tall, Bilbo says. It saddens me that they are not friendly."

"I remember what Bilbo said about the Elves and Dwarves at the Battle of Five Armies. They joined together to fight against the goblins; doesn't that make them friends now?" Merry shook his head. "I will never understand politics, even if I live as long as an Elf!"

Frodo laughed quietly, "Nor me, Merry. It is something I have been meaning to ask Gandalf about... among other things. If I can just pin the old fellow down for a few hours! I have scarcely seen him in the past few days!"

"I'll tell him you're looking for him, if I see him, Frodo," Merry promised.

"Thank you… but do be discreet, Merry!" Frodo asked.

"Discretion! I am the very soul of discretion!" Merry exclaimed earnestly.

Frodo gave his cousin a grin and punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Ask Bilbo about putting up a sign on the gate. I think that is a good idea."

"Do you think it would keep people away?" Merry asked.

"Not really," Frodo answered lightly, "but it is worth a try!"

⌂

Frodo grabbed an apple from the bowl and slipped out of the back door of Bag End with a nod to Gran; the Dwarf was industriously stirring the huge kettle over the hearth, muttering to himself.

The letters were tucked inside Frodo's jacket, and the pretty ribbon was coiled in his pocket. He made his way out of the garden and through the back gate, planning to take the shortest route to Bywater to visit Rosie Cotton's house.

He halted at the gate. The waggon was parked in the road; the horse was harnessed and waiting patiently. Frodo walked around and gently stroked the large beast's flank. Big as the horse was—it towered over Frodo—he felt no fear. The horse lowered his great head and allowed Frodo to scratch his ears gently.

"He likes this land and its inhabitants." The driver had appeared soundlessly beside Frodo. The hobbit looked up and saw eyes sparkling out of the hood. He no longer doubted that this was an Elf.

The Elf smiled at him and said, "You don't remember me, do you, young Frodo?"

"Forgive me," Frodo said, "I don't know your name, but I do remember you. I met you some years ago at the Piney Knoll on an evening of late summer."

The Elf laughed. "You remember well! My name is Tirhen. I recall the ballad you sang that night. Lindir heard it when I last visited Rivendell; he thought it was very good. He was surprised when I told him that it had been composed by a hobbit."

Frodo felt a little shock. "You sang my song in Rivendell?"

Tirhen nodded. "Not I alone, Frodo. Many Elves have had it on their lips. You underestimate your gifts."

Frodo felt very pleased and also giddy. He mumbled a soft 'thank you', hanging his head. The horse pushed him with his nose and nearly knocked him down. Laughing, Frodo gave him the apple from his pocket.

"Are you leaving now? I wish you could stay for the Party. You would be most welcome!"

Tirhen smiled and bowed. "Thank you. I regret that I cannot. Though a hobbit's idea of a party differs greatly from an Elf's, nevertheless this Party will be one long remembered! Yet one day I may see you again, young Master. _Namarië!_"

"Good-bye!" Frodo called. He took a deep breath and uttered a phrase he had learned from one of the books Bilbo had received from Elrond some years ago. _"Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya." _

The Elf turned toward him sharply, an expression of pleasure and respect on his fair face. He gave Frodo a deep bow, and then he climbed up onto his waggon.

Frodo watched as Tirhen drew up his hood again and took the reins loosely in his hands. He spoke a word to the horse and they moved off. Frodo sighed and turned to walk down the road, but when the waggon had gone he found Samwise standing across the way, looking as if he had been sun-struck.

"Sam? Are you all right?" Frodo asked, concerned.

"Aye, sir! I am fine, Mr. Frodo! I was just coming up the Hill to tend to the hedges an' I saw you standing there talking to... who was that, Mr. Frodo? He was taller even than ol' Mr. Gandalf!"

Frodo smiled and looked down the road where the waggon had disappeared. "A traveler from a far-away land."

Sam looked at Frodo in his coat. "Where are you off to, Mr. Frodo?" he asked. "Do you need someone to run for you? I could cut the hedges later..."

"Um..." Frodo started, wondering how on earth he could refuse Sam without hurting his feelings. His thoughts were moving quickly. "That's all right, Sam. You go ahead with your chores. I... I need to... to..." Frodo saw a swirl of grey fabric suddenly in the corner of his eye. "Gandalf!"

"Master Gamgee, you look well today!" Gandalf had come softly up to the two hobbits, causing Sam to gasp and Frodo to sigh with relief. "Frodo, I would like a few moments of your time, if you are willing?"

"Certainly, Gandalf." Frodo tried not to appear too relieved. "I'll be fine, Sam. I'll see you in a little while."

Sam tugged his forelock and slipped away into the safety of the garden, happy to leave Frodo in Gandalf's good hands. He watched as they walked away down the Hill, then let out his breath all at once.

"All this a-spyin' and conspiratin' has got me jumpy as a spotted toad!" Sam said to himself softly. "Why I ever let Master Merry talk me into this?" He took up his shears and began to trim the leaves on the hedges, whistling under his breath.

His eyes were fixed down the road where his master and Gandalf had walked away, so he did not notice that the ragged hedge he was clipping at had ducked his shears and was waddling away!

**III  
On Dreams**

Frodo walked along the road beside Gandalf, a charmed smile lingering on his face. _An Elf on the Hill... and in broad daylight! What was the Shire coming to...?  
_  
Gandalf paced along beside him, keeping his stride short so that he didn't leave Frodo behind. He seemed to share in Frodo's good mood; he was humming under his breath and nodding to the neighbours who were staring at him as he and Frodo walked past their gates.

"Did you have a question you wanted to ask, Frodo?" he said at last, as their feet brought them to the gentle lands beyond the village.

"Do you know why Tirhen could not stay for the party?" Frodo asked. He stooped and picked up a stone that lay in the dust on the road. He fingered it absently, thinking about all the questions he wanted to ask.

Gandalf gave him a questioning look, as if he knew that wasn't really what Frodo had on his mind. "I was speaking to him before you came out of Bag End. Bilbo has extended an invitation to him; he told me that he was glad of that kindness. Elves don't normally show much interest in the doings of halflings... I think you and your uncle have made an impression on him!" Gandalf smiled down at Frodo. "Yet he did not think it best to stay, considering the number of Dwarves about the place. He thought that might cause a bit too much gossiping about something that your uncle wishes to keep secret." And Gandalf winked at the young hobbit. "Now ask me what is really plaguing your mind, Frodo."

"I wanted to ask you about dreams again, Gandalf. You said before that you had a longer answer for me. Can you tell me now what they mean?"

"Ah," said Gandalf, stroking his long grey beard, "I have been considering what we discussed, as I am sure you have as well. What dreams have you been having, Frodo, that have made you so curious?"

"Well..." Frodo began, but he did not know what to say. Now that it came down to speaking them aloud, their strangeness and mystery seemed lessened, and he felt mildly foolish. "Maybe they don't mean anything," he muttered, casting the stone aside. "I think I over-reacted about the whole thing."

Gandalf chuckled softly, his face kind and sympathetic. "Don't be ashamed, Frodo. Anyone who reads and wonders about the world wishes that they could find their answers easily. Our dreams speak to us of our hopes and fears, in a voice that ignores comfort or propriety. We see ourselves or people we know doing extraordinary or bizarre things. Dreaming about a thing doesn't make it true."

The old Wizard leaned on his walking stick as they strolled; Frodo scuffed the dry soil on the road with his feet. It seemed that Frodo was thinking hard, and when he finally spoke his mind, all his words came out in a rush, as if he were afraid he would forget something vitally important.

"Usually, my dreams are normal, Gandalf, full of normal things. Walking in the garden, or looking out of the door at Bag End. Eating. I dream about Buckland, sometimes... I see a river frequently. But there are strange things, too. I see things in my dreams I have only read about. I sometimes dream that I am lost, sir, or that I am wandering in an unfamiliar place, looking for someone or something. And I see the Sea... or what I imagine the Sea to look like... I am not sure, but it calls up in me a great fear and a vague sense of longing. Is that not odd?"

Gandalf shook his head, making the tip of his beaten, faded blue hat to wobble around. "That sounds quite ordinary, dear Frodo. Certainly nothing to worry about. I would think that a hobbit your age, and especially one as educated and blessed with curiosity as you are, is bound to have dreams that seem outrageous, at least to other hobbits whose ideas are more... parochial. Tell me, have any of these 'odd dreams' of yours ever come true?"

"No. Well," Frodo giggled, and his face turned a bit red. "I once dreamed that my Aunt Lobelia turned into a troll... but that didn't seem very out of the ordinary!"

Gandalf laughed with Frodo. "Let's do hope that particular dream doesn't come true!"

They walked on in companionable silence for a while before Gandalf ventured to speak again. "Once I was reading a scroll that one of the Wizards in my order had loaned me. It spoke of the visions of the Seers and the extraordinary things they had predicted. But their prophecies came not from dreams, but from long consideration of facts, and usually they were moved greatly by some passionate emotion, like unto fear or anger, before they made their pronouncement. Many have been recorded that have never come to pass, and some that have occurred are still disputed by the Wise as being genuine predictions. You said before that you had waking dreams, Frodo. Do you recall them?"

Frodo stopped walking under the shade of a large oak tree. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared into the distant blue of the sky. "Once, long ago when I was just a fry, I remember playing down by the river in Buckland. I fell in—just a clumsy accident—and if it hadn't been for an adult who was nearby, I might have drowned. After that, whenever I crossed water of any kind, I was afraid that I would drown... I was even afraid of taking a bath.

"My mother told my father about it, and he took me aside and told me that I shouldn't be afraid. He went with me down to the Pool and taught me to swim. He told me that now I had no need to fear water anymore, but that I should remember always to respect it. It wasn't too long after that when he and mother drowned in the Brandywine." Frodo felt Gandalf's gentle hand on his shoulder. He covered it with his own small hand, grateful for the Wizard's sympathy. "I had reason to fear water after all, but not for myself. Is that a kind of prophecy?"

"My dear Frodo, you don't blame yourself for their deaths, do you? Your father respected the River; he and your mother both loved it. From what I have heard, he was an excellent boatman. You couldn't have prevented what happened."

"I could have told them... warned them..." Frodo gulped, feeling tears threaten. He blinked and ducked his head, not wanting Gandalf to see.

Gandalf could see, however, and he knelt before Frodo and looked him solidly in the eyes. "Who taught you to respect water, Frodo?"

"My dad..." Frodo answered in a small voice.

"Yes, and do you think he had less respect for it than you? Do you think he would endanger his wife by ignoring the lessons he took such care to teach you?" Frodo shook his head. "Then he must have been careful, and what happened to them must have been meant to be." The Wizard took hold of Frodo's arms and gave him a little shake. "They would be proud of you, Frodo, if they could see you today. You are grown into a fine hobbit, and you are good-hearted and genteel. Your uncle Bilbo made a prediction long ago that seems to have come true. He foresaw that you would become a hobbit of great character. I think he was right."

Frodo smiled and blushed a little. "How could I turn out otherwise, with two such wise and caring guardians? Gandalf, thank you for listening to me."

"My pleasure. Now, I would listen to you telling me where we are going? Or are we just idly walking to the edge of the Shire and back before supper?"

Frodo laughed and pointed to the hill that was rising before them. "I need to pay a visit to the Cotton farm, over yonder. Bilbo wants some more jelly from Madam Cotton, and I need to deliver a special invitation."

"Well, I will let you go on, then, and rest my weary bones under this excellent shady tree. I expect that they would not be overly delighted to see me wandering up to their doorstep!" Gandalf settled with a sigh onto the grass, laying his staff across his lap. "I'll wait here for you, if it is all the same, dear lad."

"All right, Gandalf!" Frodo agreed. "I'll be back very quickly!" He turned and hurried up the hill, scaring up summer moths that were hiding from the sun in the bunches of buffalo roses that crowned the hill like a purple blanket.

**IV  
Cotton and Wool**

Frodo jogged down the path, crossed the field, and began climbing the hill above the Cotton's farm. A herd of sheep was grazing below, but there was no sign of a shepherd. Frodo walked down the hill, forced to caution by the steepness of the slope. The sheep moved away as he drew near, making a perfect circle of space around the hobbit as he walked; ewes sheltering their growing lambs, rams watching him with rolling eyes. He made no sudden moves to startle them, and they parted to allow him to pass.

He neared the farm and got back on the road, approaching the door openly and correctly. He saw Jolly and Tom working in the yard to the side of the house, splitting wood with axes. Their younger brothers Nick and Nibs were gathering the halved pieces and stacking them. They waved at Frodo as he came toward the gate in front of their house. Tom carefully laid his ax down and came to meet him.

"Hoy, Mr. Frodo! Fine day for a walk, I say. What brings you this far from the Hill?" Tolman Cotton was about the same age as Samwise and Meriadoc, but he was beefer than either of them. He had always been friendly to Frodo and Bilbo, though he was a serious young hobbit, taking more after his father than just his name.

"A very fine day, Tom! I was wondering if Madam Cotton was home and if she was, would I be able to speak to her?" Frodo said politely. He made no move to come inside the yard until he was invited to do so. Tom opened the gate and waved him in.

"Mother is inside the house. Come in!" Tom looked over at his brothers, who had used Frodo's appearance as an excuse to stop working. "You lot get on with it! Dad said to have those logs split by supper, or there'd be none to be had!"

"I am sorry if I have come at a bad time," said Frodo.

"None of it! Those lazy logs are trying to dodge work, is all! I'll straighten them out." He opened the door to the house and called out, "Mother? We've company!"

If Tom's brothers were lazy, it didn't show on the grounds or inside the house. Though the Cotton farmhouse was not anywhere near as large or luxurious as Bag End, everything Frodo could see was neat and clean, and the flowers and garden were healthy and full of bloom, even this late in the summer. The house was adequately appointed, with home-made furniture and rugs, all colourful and well-constructed. There was a fruity smell in the air as Frodo stepped into the parlour.

Tom closed the door behind them and called again, "Mother?"

"In the kitchen, dear!" a voice floated toward them from down the hall. Tom led Frodo down the corridor.

The passage opened upon a kitchen that seemed small, but only because it was full of activity. There was a large kettle on the blazing hearth, bubbling with stewing fruit by the smell. Mrs. Lily Cotton was wearing an apron that had a few flecks of berry juice on it, and her cheeks were rosy-red from the heat.

"Mr. Baggins!" she said with delight when she saw who was with her son. "Tom, get him a cool drink, dear, would you? My hands are that full, right now, Mr. Baggins... if you'll just give me a moment…"

"Of course, ma'am. I am sorry if I am interrupting--"

"Not at all! Just take that, and you come and stir this, Tom... don't let it burn!" She wiped her hands on a clean towel and came up to Frodo, smiling. "You look very well today, Mr. Frodo."

"Thank you, ma'am," Frodo replied.

"Come and sit down... keep stirring, Tom!" she called over her shoulder, not even glancing at her eldest son, who had just that moment ceased to turn the preserves. He picked up the spoon hastily and resumed, grinning at Frodo. "What can I do for you today?" she asked Frodo.

"My uncle sent me 'round, ma'am, to engage you for some of your delightful mint jelly. Bracegirdle seems to have sold all his stock, so I came to see if you might have a jar or two to part with?" Frodo asked hopefully.

"Ah... maybe," she said, rising to scan the shelves of her pantry. There were many, many bottles there, each filled with colourful things and clearly labeled. He pushed some of them around, looking behind them. She stooped and checked the lower shelf.

"Tom, can you go to the cellar and check for some mint for me?" Tom happily stopped stirring the thick substance that was cooking over the hearth. He headed toward the back of the kitchen, pausing long enough to stick his head out of the window and yell at his brothers to get back to work. Frodo heard the sound of renewed chopping. Tom disappeared through a door.

"I don't think he will find anything down there for you, Mr. Frodo," Lily said, digging her ladle deep in the cauldron and blotting her brow with her wrist. The kitchen was very hot. "I am sure I am out of mint. I have been meaning to make up some more, but I haven't the herbs I need. I am afraid Rosie's lambs slipped into the garden and tore out our beds of spearmint plants."

Frodo sipped the glass of water that Tom had handed him earlier, then said, "If it is herbs you need, ma'am, I am fairly sure that there is an abundance of spearmint growing on the Hill… much more than we could hope to preserve, and of course, our jellies never turn out as excellent as yours!"

Lily Cotton gave him a pleased smile; Frodo couldn't tell if she blushed because the warmth from the hearth made her face red all the time. "That would be most helpful, Mr. Frodo! After I set down this batch of berry, I could get started on that, as soon as I have the plants. Stewing them fresh from the cutting is best, before their flavour begins to fade."

"I'll send someone round with the mint straight away," promised Frodo, smiling a little at the excuse to send Samwise to the Cotton's door. Rosie would probably be furious...

Frodo couldn't think of a way to casually ask where Lily's daughter might be. He knew that it would be most improper to ask, so he fingered the ribbon in his pocket and bid her good day, turning to leave.

"Wait!" Tom came puffing up out of the cellar, toting a jar full of green. "We did have one!" He thrust the jelly into Frodo's hands, grinning.

"Very good, Tom, now go and get your chores done. I haven't heard an axe fall for a while," Lily smiled at her son. "You take that jar, Mr. Frodo, and send round the herbs tomorrow, if you like. I'll split the batch, if you think that's fair?"

"Perfectly fair, Mistress!" Frodo offered her a full bow, which made her laugh with delight.

"You are most formal in a farm kitchen, Mr. Baggins!"

Frodo heard the stiff papers in his pocket crinkle as he bowed, and he exclaimed, "Oh! I nearly forgot... would you accept this invitation to Bilbo's Birthday Party, next Thursday?" Frodo extended the envelope with small ceremony. "Please bring the entire family! There will be food and games and fun for all, all day long!

Lily took it and looked at the fine gold-lettered writing on the thick, fine paper. "Thank you, Mr. Baggins! I shall give it to my husband when he gets home tonight. How kind of you to deliver it yourself!"

"Good day, ma'am," Frodo left her stirring her kettle, waving at Tom and the lads as he left the farmyard and headed back up the road. He crossed the ditch where he had come before, wading out into the field back toward where he had left Gandalf dozing.

The sheep scattered before him again, except for one lamb. It came up to Frodo fearlessly, nibbling on his sleeve and bleating.

Frodo knelt and caressed its head, laughing as it nipped at his fingers. There was a collar of braided grasses round the little one's neck, woven with little flowers. Frodo knew that this must be Rosie's pet; she always enjoyed weaving flowers.

Struck by a sudden idea, he reached into his pocket and drew out the ribbon. It shimmered in the sunlight. Carefully, he tied it to the lamb's collar, though he had to keep tugging the end out of its mouth. He secured it firmly in a large bow.

"Now, go to your mistress, little white," Frodo said, patting the lamb on the hindquarters. It dashed away, its little stub of a tail twitching. He watched it run until it disappeared between the folds in the green hills.


	5. Chapter 5 Hole Full of Secrets

**Chapter 5  
**_In five parts_**  
**

**I**

**Suspicious Sam**

Walking back to the Hill, the two friends spoke of easy things. Frodo's heart was lighter, now that he had unburdened himself of his dreams to Gandalf, and he was feeling rather clever about how he had managed to send Rosie her gift... as long as it was not her father who was shepherding that day! He laughed aloud at the thought of Mr. Cotton wearing a green silk ribbon in his sandy hair, and though Gandalf looked at him with a quizzical eye, Frodo said no more. The Wizard did not press him with questions, but smiled as if he already knew, and they walked on.

As they rounded the Hill and began to climb, Frodo again felt the rustle of paper inside his coat. "The letters!" he exclaimed, "I forgot them again! Forgive me, Gandalf! I need to run these down the Row! Would you mind going ahead and letting Bilbo know I will be home soon? I just want to hand-deliver these three..."

"Certainly, Frodo!" Gandalf answered, watching him run off. He proceeded slowly up the hill, humming under his breath.

As he drew near, he espied something odd in the garden.

Samwise was sitting on the ground, hunched over his knees, staring at a plant. He did not move nor mumble, nor heed Gandalf as he entered the garden gate and came to stand beside him. He merely regarded the plant in front of him, a bushy hydrangea with gaudy flowers, as he expected it to stand up and square-dance.

Gandalf said nothing for a long while, then he smiled and murmured softy, "I have heard your Gaffer say that plants will grow faster if you speak to them, but I am not sure if staring at them helps."

Sam looked up, noticing the towering Wizard suddenly. He scrambled to his feet and touched his forelock politely. "Sorry, sir... Mr. Gandalf, sir! I didn't hear you come in! I was just... I was... er," he ended lamely, gesturing toward the apparently interesting plant.

"Never mind, Master Samwise. I, too, am fascinated by all living things. I just don't think I could limit my curiosity to only one," Gandalf laughed quietly.

Sam looked around then, puzzled. "Where is Mr. Frodo?"

"He said he would be here directly. Do you think they have left us any cakes to have with our tea?"

"With Mr. Frodo's cousins Merry and Pippin on hand, sir, I'd not want to place a wager," Sam said with a chortle. He cast his eye back onto his plant and began to walk backwards, talking to Gandalf and watching the bush at the same time. "Still, I'm sure that Mr. Bilbo will've kept back something from them for you and Mr. Frodo." He opened the kitchen door and held it for the Wizard, throwing looks back over his shoulder, as if to catch a glimpse of the bush were it to made a dash for freedom.

The bush remained where it had been, completely inert.

With a sigh, Samwise abandoned his vigil, followed Gandalf inside, and began to prepare some tea for him and Mr. Frodo.

Once the door had closed, the bush leaned over, as if pushed by a strong wind that seemed not to touch the other plants in the garden. When the door remained closed, it shook itself, raised itself on its roots, and tip-toed around the smial, planting itself firmly beneath Frodo's windowsill. The woody vine-ivy that was growing around the eaves emitted a noise that sounded rather like a high-pitched giggle.

"SShhhh! Hearing you, they will be, Stint! An' all these _noegth_ with their beardy noses! A wonder we haven't been caught and rooted out, Ahm thinking!" said the bush.

The vine-ivy was still giggling, though more quietly. Leaves were coming loose from his body as he trembled with mirth. "You've grown so fat, drinking cream every night! Brownhands will catch you soon!" Stint writhed with silent laughter, pulling tufts of grass from the thatched awning over Frodo's window. "Fat Firtle! Wobbly wisteria waistcoated, plump plum pudding, flabby fichus fescue, chubby cherrywood triple-chin, pudgie budgie..."

"Your mouth, shut it!" whispered Firtle angrily, green sparks leaping from his deep brown eyes. Stint subsided, but his eyes were still laughing. Firtle gathered the flowers that had fallen from his limbs, replacing them fussily. "Uprooted and cast from the garden Ah would rather be, than listen to ye babbling on! Thistle and woodrot! Stint, a trial to this poor _fëaorn_ ye are!"

The window between them suddenly opened. Meriadoc leaned out, looking for the source of the faint voices he had heard. He saw only the ground and the garden. He blinked and drew back inside, closing the window. "There's nothing, Pip. Maybe the Dwarves are having a sing-song..."

Outside, a few leaves floated down onto the bush, causing it to sneeze and mutter a curse, very softly.

**II**

**Priorities and Mysteries, Merry and Pippin**

Merry closed the window and turned back toward Pippin. They were in the room they had been sharing with Frodo, taking a break from answering the door. The pull-bell had been ringing non-stop all afternoon, even after Merry nailed up a sign on the front gate: "No Admittance Except On Party Business!" They had been run off of their feet all afternoon, until finally one of the Dwarves had gruffly agreed to take over their duties so they could have a cup of tea. They had retreated swiftly to the quiet of Frodo's room, presumably to relax.

Pippin was sitting against the door, listening intently for voices on the other side. He and Merry had been vigilantly watching for Bilbo and listening for clues, but their older cousin had secluded himself within his study all day. In the time they had been in Bag End helping Bilbo and Frodo prepare for the party, they had not heard one mention of the magic ring, nor seen even a glimmer of gold.

Merry was on the verge of a nervous outburst. He knew Bilbo was planning something more than just the biggest party the Shire had seen in nearly eighty years. And he was growing mad with desire to know.

He couldn't explain his interest to his co-conspirators; neither Pippin nor Sam seemed to believe that Bilbo was going to leave. There had been no evidence of packing or any mention of departure. But Merry suspected it; he felt it in his bones, he would say. When he spoke of it, Pippin would just laugh at him and Sam would say nothing.

So he kept it all in his heart, and kept his eyes and ears open. Pippin was still willing to play the spy-- it was all a marvelous game to him. Sam was more interested in tales of Elves than of mysterious rings. He had become more and more reticent about sharing the things he overheard, especially now that there was a wizard lurking about. Merry knew that if he wanted facts, he was going to have to dig them out himself. He wondered if he should try to question Frodo again.

"What were those noises, Merry?" Pippin whispered softly, still leaning his head against the door. Gran had just closed the front door on another caller, repeating the mantra the two young hobbits had learned from Bilbo that morning, "I am terribly sorry, but the Master and his nephew are not home! Good day!"

"I think it was just birds or something, Pippin. Has Frodo come back yet?"

"No, Gandalf came in with Sam and told Bilbo that Frodo said he would be along shortly. Gran just sent Flora Bunce away... I think he actually growled at her!"

"We only have a moment, then. I am absolutely sure that Bilbo is planning something!" Merry's voice sank into a whisper. He leaned close and spoke into Pippin's eager ear. "I overheard some of the Dwarves talking about their journey home, back to Lonely Mountain. Frerín mentioned that they might take longer getting home than it took them to come here, because of a detour of some kind. I think he was speaking of Bilbo."

"Bilbo is a detour? I thought he was a professional treasure-seeker." Pippin's face was hopelessly innocent and confused.

Merry chuckled. "No, silly. A detour is when you go out of your way for something... like accompanying an expert treasure seeker-- or a burglar-- on an Adventure!"

"But Bilbo isn't a burglar... anymore," Pippin said hesitantly.

_'He still has the magic ring'_, Merry thought to himself. Aloud, he said, "He might still dabble a bit, keep his hand in, so to speak. He might consider coming out of retirement, for the right reason. Maybe he is running out of gold; this party has to have set him back a few silver pennies."

Merry didn't really care about treasures or silver. He only wanted another look at that fabulous ring. He had seen it but for a second, merely a flash of gold spinning in the air. "If he leaves, he'll take that with him, surely, and I may never get a chance to see it again!" he murmured, more to himself than to Pippin.

Pippin heard worry in his cousin's voice. He shared Merry's concern about Bilbo, but not his interest in the ring.

Pippin had only heard tales about a magic ring, told around the fire late at night, but he never seen it himself. Bilbo was his favourite and most interesting uncle; he didn't care about any treasure or magical rings, he did not want Bilbo to leave. "Maybe it is just a short Adventure," he said softly, his face full of uncharacteristic sadness. "He would come back, wouldn't he, Merry?"

Merry stopped mumbling, hearing for the first time, seemingly, the grief in Pippin's voice. Suddenly, he was aware that he had been more concerned about a trinket than that his favourite uncle might be disappearing. "I am sure you're right, Pip," he said, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Uncle Bilbo is really old, and all... surely he won't go away for long, if he does go..."

The doorbell rang again, and they heard a loud grumbling complaint and the sound of Dwarven boots stomping down the hall.

"We'd better go and relieve Gran, before he frightens anymore townsfolk. I hope Frodo gets home soon," Merry added, opening the door. "I have to find out what he knows, that cousin of ours. He is getting too good at keeping secrets."

**III**

**Hand Delivered**

Frodo jogged down the lane branching off of the main road that ran past the base of the Hill to service the three smials of Bagshot Row. Each of these smials were a well-kept burrow, good-sized and dry, though nowhere near as luxurious or spacious as Bag End, which lay within the crown of the same Hill.

In Bagshot Row, Number One, just off of the main path leading to Bag End, lived Odo Proudfoot, with his family. Next to them, spaced by a bit lawn and divided by a hedge, Daddy Two-foot resided. The yard in front of his house was an impeccable carpet of evenly cut grass, of which he was justifiably proud. He often bragged about it to the Gaffer, who allowed him his prideful admissions with an equable grin; the Gaffer's youngest son Samwise cut the grass for Daddy Two-foot, so he was just as proud of his son as Dad was about the grass, though the Gaffer would never have admitted such a thing aloud.

"Our Sam knows he does well," the Gaffer gruffed once to his wife Bell. "If'n I tell him as much, he'd just be gettin' notions in his head, and he might forget his place."

Bell respected the Gaffer's ways, but when she and Samwise were alone, she would whisper to him how proud and pleased his father was with him, and then she would reward him with extra hugs and smiles.

On the end of the Row was Gaffer Gamgee's smial, where Frodo had spent many afternoons as a child, playing with Samwise and his brothers and sisters. Mrs. Gamgee always welcomed him, though the Gaffer would often worry and fret about what would be thought of 'his young'uns mixin' with folk above their station'. Bell would just agree with him complacently, then encourage the young Frodo with a wink to pay no-never-mind to him, and come back the next day again. Frodo thought fondly of her, more as a mother than as the wife of his uncle's manservant.

Now, almost thirty-three years old and fast coming up on the date of the Big Party, Frodo trotted along the lane, intent on delivering the invitation's to the Row's inhabitants personally. He knew that it was not required; the families had been invited verbally by Bilbo and himself already, but Frodo felt that expending this small effort was the least he could do, considering how unfailingly friendly and considerate they had all been to him. Daddy Two-foot and Mr. Proudfoot would sometimes get into a gossip about Mad Baggins, but whenever Bilbo heard these tales, he would laugh and walk down the Row to visit them, giving as good as he got of their acerbic humour.

He stopped before the gate at Number One, intending to go inside and knock on the door, when he saw a cluster of hobbits standing around the dividing hedge between Daddy Two-foot's and the Gaffer's homes. Both Dad and the Gaffer were standing there, as well as Mr. Proudfoot, along with a mix of other folk, all goggling and gandering up the Hill at the activity on the Party Field. Frodo recognized a couple of hobbits from Hobbiton, Mr. Tussock from Bywater, a young hobbit with a bag wearing a Postal cap, and another hobbit whom he had never seen before. They were standing in a loose circle in the lane, while the Gaffer leaned on his hoe, on his side of the hedge, and Dad held a pair of shears in his hands, but wasn't applying them to any foliage. There were all talking animatedly, staring up the hill.

Frodo grinned and walked toward them, fingering the thick paper envelopes inside his coat pocket. This was going to embarrass the Gaffer something terrible, he realized, but he knew also that it was fair and proper, and the Gaffer would be delighted, even if he never showed it.

So engrossed were the hobbits on the movements of the Dwarves building the hearth on the Party Field that Frodo was able to walk right up and stand beside Mr. Tussock. He had to speak to get their attention.

"Good afternoon, gentlehobbits," Frodo said.

The Gaffer turned toward him with a gentle start. He touched his forelock respectfully, "Mr. Frodo! Good afternoon to ye! What can I do for you, sir?"

"Not a thing, Master Gamgee! I have come by to make sure that you have your invitation to the Party." Frodo withdrew the envelopes from inside his coat, handing one each to the Gaffer, Daddy Two-foot, and Mr. Proudfoot. "Now you have no excuses not to come, and bring your families, too. We shall bring the party to you, if you are late!" Frodo laughed.

The Gaffer quickly pocketed his, clearing his throat before saying, "Thank'ee, indeed, Mr. Frodo." Frodo caught the grin of pleasure before he managed to conceal it beneath his gruff cough. "Hope them Dwarves make that fire-pit big enough! If'n I'm to bring the young'uns, there'll be need for plenty of vittles!"

"Plenty and to spare, Master Gamgee!" Frodo assured him. Dad and Odo both opened their letters, looking at the gold ink as it flashed in the sun. Their lookers-on were quite impressed, though Frodo knew that neither hobbit could in fact read.

He smiled at them and offered a short bow. "I must get myself back up the Hill for tea, now. Good day to you all," he added, bowing to the others. The strange hobbit watched him with an amused eye. Frodo nodded to him and walked away, quickening to a jog as he met the road, his empty stomach urging him onward. He could smell fresh pastry coming from Bag End's kitchen window, and he hoped that Pippin wouldn't eat all before he arrived.

**IV**

**Gran the Grouch**

Gran was disgruntled, but not because he was watching the door while the young hobbits rested, so that he was being interrupted constantly by sight-seekers and gossips. He was not upset that the young master was late for the meal he had prepared, nor that Bilbo had not appeared to sample it. The older hobbit was sequestered in his study, having firmly asked not to be disturbed unless the burrow was collapsed or something was on fire. He didn't even mind the young hobbit who had attached himself to his side, eager to learn the details of Dwarvish cooking. In fact, young Samwise was helping him tremendously.

Since Gran usually conducted himself in an air of discontent, none of the hobbits took any mind of him. They always tip-toed around him anyway, and in the few moments when he was jovial and good-natured, they regarded him with cautious amazement. They were afraid to ask why he was happy, in case the asking might annoy him in some way and set off his dark mood again.

This was just his way. Gran's father, Fíran of the Iron Mountains, was remembered as a coarse and grim-faced Dwarf. Frerín was actually Gran's brother, though not even their closest companions knew this. Gran was the elder, but he deferred in all ways to his younger brother. This would seem odd to a Man, but Dwarves are not as men are. Their respect for one another lay in skill, family honour, and service. Long ago, the younger Frerín excelled his brother and even their father in the skills of cookery. Thus it was that the elder served the younger, and so upheld the higher honour for the family.

Neither were these facts the reason behind Gran's unusually gruff mood. What was taxing his temper today was the fact that he knew things that he could not speak of, (which was not unusual for a Dwarf, who keeps secrets to the last breath no matter how he is threatened or hardly pressed). But torture and guile were not what was threatening Gran's silence. Gran wished to speak of these secrets, in order to bring comfort. Gran was one who is particularly sensitive to the feelings of others, and he didn't like to see anybody upset or distressed.

Yes, that sounds odd, about a one who continually storms around in a habitual rage, but rarely did Gran direct his anger at those who did not warrant his ire. When he saw someone feeling badly, he did what he could to comfort that one, with food or drink. Or he might say something to try to cheer them, even if under his breath so than no other could hear. Each of his friends thought of him as a tough fellow with a soft heart; they were respectful of the way he conducted himself, because they knew he meant no harm.

Here in this amazing underground house, he had met many hobbits who had easily burrowed into his heart. He had liked the Master since before he met him, as Gran had been raised on tales of Bilbo the Burglar and the revenge on Smaug the Despicable. He was very fond of the young master, Frodo, who was like Bilbo in so many ways, and yet unlike him, as well. This Frodo did not have a cynical bone in his body, it seemed, and was ever polite and respectful to all of the Dwarves, indeed, to all he met. Gran enjoyed the mischievous energy of the cousins Meriadoc and Peregrin, laughing into his beard when they crept into the kitchen to steal biscuits from the plate on the table, which he had left just to tempt them away from the other treats more carefully concealed. He even liked Gandalf, even though he was a Wizard and somewhat less reputable; he had never done harm to Gran or his family, so therefore Gran had no argument against him.

But the sensitive Dwarf could feel how everyone was upset about something underneath the excitement and enthusiasm for the upcoming Party. Bilbo was extremely secretive, virtually hiding in his study from all callers and even from those invited into his home. Merry and Pippin were worried, though they hid it well from the others; Gran could see it and feel it. He longed to comfort them, but he could not. He had promised, along with the other Dwarves, not to tell anyone about Bilbo's plans to depart; Bilbo had, of course, told his plans to the Dwarves, since he would be accompanying them back to Erebor by way of Rivendell. But why he had not told the young ones Bilbo did not confide, and Gran could not guess.

Frodo knew, Gran was sure, but he appeared no less worried than the younger hobbits. He obviously adored his uncle and did not want him to leave. Gran had not understood why Frodo was not going with Bilbo, why he was choosing to stay behind in this quiet village. To Gran, it seemed inconceivable that Frodo would let his Uncle go forth on an Adventure without him.

Gran became so upset about this, he eventually asked Gandalf if he could explain it to him, figuring that if the Wizard said ought he did not agree with, it would be no dishonour to disregard his words. Not all Dwarves recognized the wisdom of Gandalf the Grey.

Well, Gran recognized it now; indeed, his respect for the old Wizard was multiplied! Gandalf had looked him over with the same frown that Gran wore everyday, then asked the Dwarf a (seemingly) simple question.

"Do you need your mentor beside you when you cook?"

Gran had regarded him with a glance that seemed to ask if the Wizard had actually heard his question correctly. Gandalf repeated himself in a gentle way, and Gran answered hesitantly.

"No... of course not! I learned how to cook from my father. I remember what he taught, and I can cook anywhere I am, so long as I have things to cook and mouths to feed."

"So it is with Frodo. He cares for his uncle, but he does not need him to be next to him in order to care about him, nor need he see him to remember him with affection. Frodo is meant to stay in the Shire, taking Bilbo's place. Though he is cynical sometimes regarding the quiet and dull inhabitants here, Bilbo loves this country and he wants to leave a part of himself here. Frodo is that part of himself--the best part, I have heard him say. I agree with him; Frodo is the best hobbit in the Shire."

This placated the Dwarf somewhat, and gave him much to think over as he went about his routine of cooking. Little Sam Gamgee kept the kitchen spotless as the Dwarf worked, always watching him closely to learn his art. Gran affected to ignore him, but contrived to work a little more slowly so that the hobbit could follow his actions, even muttering aloud which herb or ingredient came next and how much to use.

After he had finished the recipe he sent Samwise out to the garden to complete his own chores, then he spent some time thinking over the things that Gandalf had said. When the Wizard, trailed closely by Samwise, appeared just after tea-time, popping into the smial through the kitchen door, Gran jutted his beard at him and grumbling that he should carefully wipe his boots, as the Dwarf didn't have time to clean the floor, what with all the cooking and answering the doorbell he was expected to do...

Gandalf smiled at him, not in the least mocking, and did wipe his already clean boots on the mat. He sat down at the kitchen table as Sam moved swiftly to pour him a cup of tea. Gran took a plate of cakes out of an empty dutchoven, where he had hidden them from the perpetually hungry twain Merry and Pippin.

"I saved those for you and the young master," Gran said gruffly. "If he doesn't come along, you're welcome to eat them all!"

Gandalf smiled, "Thank you, Gran. I am sure he will be along very shortly. Would you pour a cup for Frodo as well, Samwise? He shall be here before it has time to cool."

Indeed, before the steam had gone from the top of the mugs, they heard the front door open and close and Frodo's soft tread leading to the kitchen. When the hobbit saw the tea and cakes, and the Wizard patiently waiting, he smiled with relief and pleasure, and gave a short bow to the Dwarf.

"Thank you, Gran! And thank you, too, Sam!" he sat down and sipped his tea. "Ahh! Just right! I am so hungry..." he helped himself to a cake.

Gran had to make an effort not to smile with pride and delight.

**V**

The Eye in His Hand 

Bilbo had closed himself within his study, orders given and threats made, presumably to accomplish some important paperwork. In truth, all such things had been completed for quite a while. Bilbo regretted not having something to occupy his time, for with each moment that drew the Birthday Party nearer, he became more anxious and eager to leave. Sometimes he thought about just going immediately and hang the Party-- but he could not do that to Frodo. There would be enough raised eyebrows and questions after he left, which Frodo would have to deal with on his own.

"Better to give them all something else to talk about," Bilbo told himself firmly, setting his pack down for the third time, back inside the wardrobe where it was out of sight.

"And I wouldn't want to miss the grand Party," he said, somewhat to console himself. He spent a few moments contemplating the surprise and amazement on the faces of the hobbits who would be in attendance for his 'little joke'. He then imagined, with a hearty laugh, what would be the look Otho Sackville-Baggins's would have when he arrived on the day after Bilbo's 'disappearance' to hear the reading of his Will. He knew it would be a sight, but he had no intention of being within ten leagues of Bag End when the news was delivered that the S-B's would have no part of the Bag End estate whatsoever. "Poor Frodo," Bilbo reflected. And then he chuckled again.

He knew Frodo could manage Otho and his abrasive wife Lobelia. Frodo was a most polite and correctly-behaved hobbit, far more patient and considerate that Bilbo was himself. Bilbo knew he himself could not long abide the deliberate uncouthness of some of his relations. He often baited them with his sharp wit, which truly only worsened their tempers.

Frodo was far more diplomatic than Bilbo knew himself to be. He seemed simply not to hear any insult or disparaging remark directed toward him. However, if anyone spoke ill in front of him concerning his uncle, cousins, or any of his friends, he would politely and firmly correct them. Then he placed the incident behind him and would seem to forget about it completely. Frodo was a true gentlehobbit.

"Frodo is going to be all right," Bilbo told himself firmly, but not before an unfamiliar ache took hold in his breast. He had lived for so long alone before-- quite happily unaware of the emptiness of his life. When Frodo had come into it, the young hobbit had filled the void in Bilbo's life _and_ in his heart. More than just a cousin or a student, Frodo had become as a son to him, a brother, a peer—a friend. It hurt more than the worst wound or darkest memory that Bilbo had, thinking about losing Frodo's companionship.

Bilbo was appalled to discover tears leaking down his face. He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief, and while fishing about for it, his fingers came in contact with the soothing coolness of a band of metal. His _other_ companion—his precious Ring.

He pulled it free of his pocket, glancing around to make sure he was alone. He opened his hand and sighed, seeing its fair and simple curves on his palm. It was the one thing he had brought back from his Adventures that he truly enjoyed. Of course, he still owned Sting, the Elven knife he had claimed as a sword, and the coat of _mithril_ rings that Thórin had given him; he treasured them as well, but they were tools, useful as well as beautiful. Also, he'd had the gold he had earned by helping to flush out the dragon, which had been well-spent—well,_ nearly_ well and truly spent; all but a tiny bag of coins that was carefully packed away. That, along with his travel expenses, had left only a small nest-egg, which he had passed on to Frodo, swearing him to keep it secret and use it only in an emergency.

Bilbo knew that if any hint of money was mentioned in the will would cause an uproar, so he had carefully made sure that there was none to officially pass on; none for the Sackville-Bagginses to quibble about. Frodo had the small fortune that he would inherit from his parents on Wednesday next. The Master of Brandy Hall, Rorimac, was coming to officially present it to Frodo during a private ceremony at Bag End, on the day before the Party.

As head of the family Baggins, Bilbo was also expected to present a gift to Frodo, and he had the perfect gift in mind. His beautiful smial and everything inside it (excepting a few small odds and ends) would become Frodo's own. It was far grander a gift that any would expect, and he was sure that Frodo would be quite overwhelmed; though they had already discussed everything in the Will, Bilbo felt certain the Frodo wasn't really sure that he would actually go through with it... that he would indeed leave with the intention of not coming back. Bilbo allowed Frodo to think what he would, as he had always done. In truth, it was easier to look into his eyes and see a flicker of hope than the devastation of realizing that he was in fact leaving for good and all. Bilbo felt a bit selfish about that, but even that was easier to bear than the thought of Frodo's tears.

But aside from Bag End and all the possessions which he was not taking away with him, Bilbo planned also to leave to his nephew his most precious treasure... his magic Ring. This had been his idea originally, though he had almost immediately entertained second thoughts, then and lately, with more increasing frequency as the date of the Birthday drew nearer.

Gandalf helped keep him firm to his plan, and there _was_ a part of him that yearned to release the thing. It wore on his mind; it worried him and wearied him. What if he lost it, out in the wild? What if it was taken from him! Bilbo shuddered, just thinking on it. Yes, it was better to give it to Frodo. He would keep it safe, keep it secret as Bilbo himself had done, and then Bilbo would know always where the precious thing was.

The ring glowed in the afternoon sunlight, innocent-looking and pure. Looking fondly at it, Bilbo suddenly experienced the most curious sensation. He felt quite distinctly that someone was looking at him. He closed his fingers quickly around the ring, turning swiftly. There was no one in the room, nor was there anyone looking in through the window beyond the brown-eyed-susans bobbing their golden heads outside in the garden. The looked-upon feeling faded as quickly as it had come.

Bilbo shook himself, then glanced into his hand once more. The feeling came back again! As if he were being spied on... as if the ring were an eye, looking at him...

Bilbo shoved the ring deep into his pocket and let out a long sigh. "I need a nap", he insisted to himself, stretching out on the couch in the corner of his study. "Yes... a nap is just what I need! I'll skip tea and have a good appetite for dinner," were his mumbled thoughts as he drifted off to sleep, his hand unconsciously clenched over his waistcoat pocket.

⌂

Frodo eased open the door to Bilbo's study when his uncle failed to answer his third polite knock. Seeing that Bilbo was soundly asleep curled on the sofa, Frodo came inside and set down the tea-tray he had brought. He looked at his uncle, a smile softening his face. When his uncle slept, he looked like a hobbit of a mere 50 or 60 years, instead of one pushing his eleventh decade. His face was free of lines and hardship, except for the laugh-wrinkles around his eyes. Frodo fetched a quilt from the cedar chest beneath the window, and with it he gently covered his uncle against a chill.

Bilbo stirred briefly and settled back to sleep. As he moved, something dropped from beneath the blanket, making Frodo turn back when he had been about to leave. There, on the carpet beside the couch, lay a simple ring of mellow gold.

Frodo picked it up and looked at it closely. Bilbo had shown it to him before, shortly after he had moved to Bag End, partially as proof that his wild tales were true, but mostly to share a wonderful thing with an understanding audience. Frodo had never actually held it before. It was very heavy for so small a trinket, and it seemed strangely warm to his fingers.

He glanced at Bilbo again, noting that he was still sleeping deeply. He turned to set the ring on the tea-tray where Bilbo would find it, but then he hesitated. Instead, he tucked the ring into the inner pocket of his uncle's coat, hanging on the back of his chair.

Frodo added a small log to the fire and closed the grate, then let himself soundlessly out of the room. Though he thought upon the ring no more that night, Frodo's fingers remembered the warmth of it for a long time.


	6. Chapter 6 Ribadyan

**Chapter 6  
**_in four parts_

**I**

**Ribadyan**

Days flew past, as if the sun and moon could no longer anchor the hours. If Frodo had thought that he had been busy in the weeks and days before, he realized now that he was mistaken. From dawn til after dusk he was working, completeing invitations, helping Bilbo check off replies, running orders with his cousins for more provisions for the Party; all manner of delicacies, wines, ales, confections, and sweetmeats. There were guests traveling from far off to be received and housed. Soon the Green Dragon had no more rooms available for let, nor did the Ivy Bush, nor did any tavern, inn, or hostel within thirty miles of Hobbiton. Bilbo had lists of friends who had agreed to house his special guests; Frodo made it his job to make sure everything was in order.

It seemed that those two week passed in a blur. Frodo woke one morning with a jolt, realizing that today was Wednesday the twenty-first of September, the day before the Party and the day he would be receiving his own guests; family members bearing gifts for the ribadyan, or the byrdings as the word was more commonly used. He and Bilbo would both be byrdings on the twenty-second of September. Today would be a day of ceremony and constant activity.

Frodo lunged out of bed and hurried into the bathing room. Merry and Pippin had been away since yesterday, visiting their parents who had arrived for the festivities. Both families were staying with the Boffins in Hobbiton. The lads virtually had had to be dragged away from Bag End, the day before; such was their reluctance to leave. Frodo had tried to console them with a promise that they'd be welcome to stay with him at Bag End for at least a week after the Party. They finally agreed to accompany their parents after that.

As helpful and supportive as Merry and Pippin had been to him, Frodo was glad that they were not here now, for he surely would have tripped over them in his rush, had they been sleeping on the floor in his room. He bathed and then dressed carefully in his finest clothes, wishing that Samwise were here to help him. He felt oddly nervous and fumbly; he had to re-buttoning his waistcoat when he kept coming up with an extra button-hole.

He was combing out his dripping hair when a knock sounded at his door and Bilbo walked in.

"Almost ready, Frodo? You ought to have a bit of breakfast before the first wave arrives! Paladin is coming for second breakfast and Rorimac will be here for nuncheon, but we've any number of appointments in between and after tea. Are you dressed? Let me look at you..." Bilbo took him by the shoulders and gave his arms a little squeeze. "Not nervous, are you?" Frodo nodded guiltily. "_My_ Frodo—nervous! Don't be! You'll not see anyone today that you've never met before! Try to relax and enjoy it. Luckily for you, I will probably be getting the brunt of the attention, but you shall not be forgotten."

"I'm not worried about that, Uncle," Frodo said, swallowing to clear his constricted throat. "I haven't seen Rorimac for a while... and he's coming to... to give me..." Frodo fell silent, his eyes lowered as he fumbled to fasten his cufflinks. One spun out if his fingers and dropped onto the carpet. He bent to pick it up, but could not raise his head yet.

Bilbo looked away briefly until Frodo recovered himself. "Nevermind, Frodo. I know what this means to you." Bilbo took the difficult cufflink and fastened it for his nephew. He continued in jauntier tone, "And you _will_ have fun today-- trust me, lad, regardless of how you feel right now. After this, it is going to be one long holiday until..."

"...Until you leave." Frodo's words came out in a whisper, but sounded quite clear in the quiet smial. When Bilbo said nothing, Frodo continued softly, "It won't be easy, Bilbo, pretending to enjoy the party, knowing what will happen after the Supper speech..."

"It may not be easy to believe now, lad, but you will enjoy yourself, and it will happen faster if you don't think on it overmuch. Come now, Frodo! This is what we have planned! Don't spoil my joke! Humour your barmy old uncle today and tomorrow, eh? This is the beginning of your life as the Master of Bag End!"

"I don't want to be Master of the Hill if it means you aren't here, Bilbo." Frodo sighed. "And I won't be Master at all, if certain people have anything to say about it," Frodo said, steering the subject toward another worry that was eating at him. "They are coming today, too, aren't they?

"No, not today! No Sackville-Bagginses to ruin our Byrding Day!" Bilbo led Frodo out of his room and steered him into the dining room. A generous breakfast waited on the table, and Frerín himself was cooking and serving today.

"Sit and eat, before it gets cold!" the smiling Dwarf urged them. "I need this table cleared before the second breakfast guests arrive!"

Frodo thanked him and realized how very hungry he was. He tucked into the food at once, drizzling extra cream into his mug. "Frerín, sir, you make the best coffee in the Shire!" Frodo sipped from his mug and sighed. "What will I do, when you go back to Erebor?" he lamented.

"Not to worry, young master," Frerín laughed, sitting down and joining them in a cup. "Your little squire has been ferreting out all my secrets while I have been here, and you'll hardly know I've gone, once he starts taking care of you. That lad is so intense; I think I may have learned a thing or two from him, as well!" Bilbo and Frodo both laughed. Samwise could be so earnest!

Frodo felt some of the gloom lift from him, there in that bright room with the warm sunlight glowing on the colourful garden outside the window. He looked at Frerín and remembered a question that had been wanting to ask since he had met the Dwarf.

"Sir, why is your beard so short?" he inquired suddenly.

Frerín glances at him and then laughed out loud. "Now you ask? Why, both your cousins and my little apprentice asked me that the very same question day they met me!" He chucked heartily and wipe his eyes before he answered, "I keep it trimmed short so that I don't get it into my cooking! Well, that is the answer I usually give, and it is the one I told them! It is true, but only in part. What actually happened is that one day I managed to catch my beard on fire..."

"No!" Frodo gasped. Bilbo chuckled and nearly spilt his tea.

"Aye, it is true," Frerín said, shaking his head sadly. "A fine long full beard it was, too. Double-forked and hanging past my belt, it was! My grandfather would have been proud! But alas! One campfire on a windy day, and suddenly I am a stripling again, trying to grow it out in one night! I didn't want to show my face in public, I was so ashamed!

"But then I realized how convenient it was to not have a long beard to fuss with. I decided to trim it up and keep it short. It does make me look younger, and therefore I am constantly underestimated. I like to impress people, you may have noticed..."

Frodo laughed and saluted the Dwarf. "You do impress, master. And I understand what you mean, about being underestimated."

Frerín nodded sagely. "I am sure you do, Mr. Frodo. Now, are you two finished? I've got to clean all this up and set the table again. Finish your coffee and tea in the parlour, if you please!"

The byrdings obeyed humbly.

**II**

**Second Breakfast on Byrding Day**

Paladin arrived just before nine o'clock, as punctual as always, but somewhat less that his usual jovial, good-natured self. On his arm was his wife Eglantine, and behind them in a row were their daughters Pearl, Pimpernel, and Pervinca, followed by their youngest child and only son, Peregrin.

Pippin gave his older cousins a wink as he trooped into the smial after the ladies. Paladin watched him sternly. Frodo wondered, what had gone on between father and son to have earned Pip that quelling glare?

Pippin was behaving in a very penitent way; he said nothing while Paladin and Bilbo exchanged greetings. He helped Frodo assist the lasses to shed their shawls and hats. Pimpernel gave Frodo her coat but kept her shawl, which she was wearing so that it draped over her back. Frodo noticed then that she had a rather large grass-stain on her dress that the shawl did not completely cover. Understanding began to dawn on him then, and he decided not to mention the grass-stain or Pippin's silence.

Second breakfast was ready by the time they were seated, and Frerín served it with the help of young Samwise, who had appeared at the backdoor at the crack of dawn with fresh eggs and butter and a hopeful, appealing smile that the Dwarf chef found impossible to resist. Frodo was offering Eglantine some baked apples and missed the questioning look that Pippin gave Samwise, and Sam's slight shake of the head in answer.

Paladin cleared his throat. "It's gone quite cloudy since sun-up, Bilbo. I pray the rain doesn't spoil the party tomorrow."

Bilbo glanced out the window. "I think that it will all pass on today. I've been planning this party for too long to have it spoiled by a bit of rain!"

Paladin laughed as Eglantine gave Bilbo a funny stare. "That's proof that Bilbo has plenty of Took in his blood! Remember how old Fortinbras used to predict the weather, my dear? He said his ears would wiggle when it was going to rain, and he used to wiggle them, too! Flapped them like a bat's wings, he could, right, Pearly?" Pearl giggled, covering her mouth with her napkin. She was the only of Paladin's children old enough to remember Old Fortinbras. Then all the children began to laugh when Paladin and Bilbo both wiggled their ears at the same time.

Frodo laughed along with everyone, relieved that the morning's tension was lifting. He was nervous about today, despite Bilbo's reassurances. Paladin's good humour helped him relax. He was doubly glad that it was he, and not Uncle Rorimac, who was his early visitor today.

Nearly eleven years had passed since Bilbo had brought Frodo to Bag End to live with him. Before that, Frodo had lived in Brandy Hall, in Buckland, and Master Rorimac had been his guardian. Frodo's parents, Drogo and Primula had been drowned in an unfortunate accident while boating on the Brandywine River, leaving twelve-year old Frodo alone among his mother's kin.

Some folk had criticized Rory for the way he raised Frodo; some claimed he was too lenient, others arguing that he was too strict. Frodo grew up rather alone, even among all the dozens and dozens of relative living in and around Brandy Hall. He was a Baggins in a world of Brandybucks, and he didn't quite fit in, though he tried very hard.

Frodo knew that having him around had reminded Rory of his dead sister, and that it made the Master sad to think about her. Frodo had tried to avoid him to spare him grief, but that meant that Frodo himself received little of the affection that Rory did bear the child, buried beneath his gruff nature. It was a sad and bitter way for a sensitive young hobbit to grow up. It really had been the best thing for everyone when Bilbo had decided to adopt the lad and bring him to Hobbiton.

Thankfully, everyone was quite engrossed in the excellent victuals Frerín presented to them, so Frodo's preoccupation went largely unnoticed. When the meal was finished, the ladies were escorted into the parlour, and seated comfortably in the large room.

Bilbo bowed to his guests and said, "Now Frodo and I must excuse ourselves, for soon the other guests will be arriving. Pippin, do be a useful fellow and answer the door-- politely mind you! –and show in the guests as they come. Frodo and I will be receiving in our respective studies. Paladin, you and your family are welcome to stay for elevensies, should you be able to bear the company."

"Bilbo, you are a gracious host," Paladin answered, bowing. "It will be our honour and delight to stay... if your friend is cooking again!" Eglantine nudged her husband, smiling and blushing. "Not that your cooking isn't still my favourite, pet!" Eglantine gave one of her rare laughs in response, permitting her husband to kiss her hand.

Frodo went into his study, leaving the door open a crack for his first guest. Though the formality of this custom sometimes had struck Frodo as unnecessary, today he was grateful for the strict etiquette dictated by the ancient rituals of the Ribadyan.

Hobbit custom involving the giving and receiving of gifts was structured somewhat like a group dance; as long as everyone knew their step, they were usually where they were supposed to be when the music ended. Hobbits gave gifts to others on their birthdays but they also received them. Gifts were received by the byrding, in private on the day before the Birthday, to avoid embarrassment or hurt feelings. As a rule, the guests arriving this day would be of close kinship to Bilbo and Frodo, and was required (by custom) of only those living within twelve miles of Hobbiton. However, Frodo knew several who were coming much farther distances. Paladin and his family lived much more than twelve miles away, but since Pippin and Frodo were such good friends, and Frodo was their first and second cousin and Bilbo their first, they were pleased to make the journey, especially for such a special occasion; Frodo's Coming of Age. They knew that Bilbo was planning something special for the Party, but they had no true idea, just like all the other hobbits in the Shire (except Frodo) what was the 'real surprise' that the old hobbit was planning!

Paladin appeared at Frodo's door before he had time to sit down at his desk. "Might as well get it done, so I can get back to the parlour and enjoy some more of those Dwarven biscuits!" Paladin said merrily, closing the door behind him. "I could see earlier that you were a little nervous, lad. Coming of age is no small thing, but really, you won't feel much different. Of course, it's been a long time since I was thirty-three, and they might have improved the condition by now!"

Frodo laughed, shaking hands with his cousin heartily. "Paladin, you do know how to set me at my ease! I don't know why I am so anxious. It is good to have you and Eglantine here today!"

Paladin smiled and nodded. "The girls love to visit the Hill. Perhaps it gives them lots of things to gossip about while they're sewing. I don't understand it, but I guess I am not supposed to. Who knows what goes on in a lass's mind?"

"Not I," agreed Frodo. He offered Paladin a seat, then took his own. His small study was neat and clean today. He and Sam had spent the better part of yesterday tidying it up. He wondered what he would do with the room after Bilbo left. Would he move his things into Bilbo's study? –the thought sent an unexpected pain though his heart.

Paladin was looking at a half-finished map that Frodo had unrolled on his desk, which he had planned to work on while waiting for his visitors. "Good rendering of the Green Hills, lad," he observed.

Frodo forced his mind back onto the moment. "Thank you! These drafts are actually from a book I found in the Great Smials, in your own library. I want to make a detailed map of the entire Shire."

"A noble past time," Paladin said, nodding. "This should help you, I am hoping." He withdrew from inside his jacket a small thin parcel and handed it to Frodo. It was wrapped in plain paper, tied with a string.

"Thank you, Paladin," Frodo said. He carefully unwrapped the book, which he had guessed it might be by the size and shape of the package. It was an old volume with a fawn-leather cover, the edges of the pages were gilded. In faded ink on the inside cover was written:

_"To Ferumbras, from his little brother Bandobras, with affection"._

Beneath that, in darker ink with a different script, read:

_"To Frodo Baggins, son of Primula Baggins, daughter of Mirabella Brandybuck, daughter of Gerontius Took of the House of Took, from his cousin and 'uncle' Paladin, Thain and Master of Tookland, with affection"._

Frodo examined the inscription again, glad for the wordiness that linked him to that esteemed family. He swallowed with difficulty and spoke. "This is wonderful, Paladin... uncle," he added with a smile.

Paladin laughed gently. "Don't get too excited until you read it. This has to be the most boring story of settlement of the Shire I have ever seen. Bullroarer Took was a great fighter, but he was hopeless as a scholar! I am glad to see you take more after the Baggins side when it comes to literacy." Paladin nodded toward the book, "I thought you might like it, mostly because of the inscription from Bandobras."

"I do like that, Paladin, but even more I like the addendum." Frodo picked the book up and bowed to his cousin. "I shall put it in a place of honour and when I have time, I shall examine it fully. I am actually quite interested in what it might say. Hobbit history is a favourite hobby of mine." Frodo slid the book in a niche on his shelf, where it would look quite normal and not attract attention from the other visitors who might come that day.

"Then... that just leaves this," Paladin removed from a pocket a small velvet pouch. He cleared his throat which had become suddenly constricted. His fingers slowly pried the knotted strings loose. "Egla thought that you ought to have these." He nodded to Frodo, who held out his left hand. Paladin upended the bag, spilling out a rich shower of small, faceted stones in many sizes and different colours.

"These belonged to your grandmother, Mirabella. Her mother Adamanta, the Old Took's wife, left them to her when she passed long ago. Mira had planned to have them placed in a necklace, but had never gotten around to commissioning the work, or so the tales say. My mum suggested that they had been conveniently 'lost' during Lalia's rule, but that's neither here nor there... they passed to your mum when Mirabella died, but she never claimed them. I heard Gammer Rosa say that Primula preferred a fresh flower to a cold jewel any day. That was your mum, Frodo-lad. Ever the bonny lass with daisies in her hair!" Paladin blinked, wiping away a tear and huff-huffing with half a laugh. "Well, if Prim had had a daughter, then I would have given them to her on her Coming of Age, to keep it in tradition, so to speak. But I think you can put these to a good use, Frodo. Their just pretty rocks, really-- not even very interesting ones-- collecting dust in the Old Took's study. Add them to your wealth and live in good health and comfort. That's what your mother would want, and Egla and I think she would have given them to you today herself, if she were still with us. "

Frodo stared into his hand, his breath caught by the sight of the fortune cradled in his fingers. "This is... Paladin, well... this much more than I expected..."

Paladin waved Frodo's protests away. "It is what we want, Frodo. Take them. Now, I'd best get back to the ladies... and the food!" Paladin stood up and took Frodo's hand again. "Thanks for the honour of being your first guest today, Frodo."

"You are most welcome," Frodo said, shaking his hand warmly. Paladin pulled him into a brief embrace, then released him just as quickly. He then exited the study, leaving the door slightly ajar, just as he had found it.

Frodo stood for a while, still staring at the lovely stones in his hand and did not even try to hold back his tears. He slowly placed each stone back inside the small bag Paladin had left on his desk, then drew out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes.

He heard a knock on the front door echoing through the smial, then Pippin's cheerful greeting to the new arrivals. He composed himself, for this would be a long day and it was not half over yet.

**III**

**Upon Reflection**

After Paladin's visit, Frodo received his Uncle Dudo, his 'real' uncle that was his late father Drogo's brother (That was who it had been, knocking echoingly on the door.) At ninety, the old hobbit was still spry and got about quite well. He gave Frodo his gift, a very nice pipe in the popular Northfarthing style, with a long stem and a bowl of carved white clay. He also delivered an envelope from his sister, Frodo's Aunt Dora, which contained a long letter full of well-intended advice for a newly come-of-age gentlehobbit (mostly concerning the choosing of a suitable wife). After him, Frodo met with Milo and Peony Burrows, and then Odo Proudfoot, from down the Hill.

Frodo welcomed each caller warmly, thanking them for their kind gifts. He could not help starting at each knock at his door. As the hours progressed, he became increasingly more anxious. Rorimac would be here soon.

It had been long years since he had seen his uncle, the Master of Brandy Hall. In the years since his adoption by Bilbo, Frodo had frequently returned to Buckland to visit his friends and relatives who lived there. But somehow, even when he stayed in Brandy Hall itself, Rorimac had managed to conceive of ways to avoid spending any length of time in Frodo's presence. Frodo had not pressed him for an audience.

He was actually rather surprised that Rorimac was coming to the Party, and Frodo had said as much to Bilbo when he received the letter accepting their invitation. Merry had overheard them and was quick to assure that the old fellow was going to come, and furthermore, that he would be pleased to see Frodo.

"He speaks well of you, cousin," Merry had said. "I've heard him tell Saradoc how proud he is of you."

Still, Frodo was uncertain. He had never heard such things from Rory himself. Now, as he sat in his study alone between visitors, he recalled with unease the day he had been disciplined by Farmer Maggot, and then later by Rorimac, and the words they had both spoken to him. Though they had been said to a willful and rebellious hobbit-fry barely in his 'tweens, Frodo heard the words again ringing in his ears, and he felt the shame burning in his face still.

"...Poor Miss Primula! She'd be sorry indeed to see what her son has become... were she alive to feel the shame..." the words echoed in his mind, and tears that had nothing to do with shame or fear welled in his eyes. He missed her and his Dada, more this day than he had for many years.

"Do I really look so much like her?" Frodo mused, standing and walking around his desk to the polished metal mirror that hung behind the dried flowers on the mantle. He tried to regard his image objectively, then he closed his eyes and strove to recall his mother's face, now soft and warm and a little blurred in his memory. He had always believed that she was the most beautiful hobbit-lady in the Shire.

When he opened his eyes, he did not see any similarities in himself, except for the colour of his eyes, and perhaps the shape of his mouth. She had smiled and laughed often; Dada had been so good at making her laugh. Frodo did not think he looked like his mother at all, except maybe when he smiled; then he could see a little of that memory of her that was hidden within him...

… _**Twenty- nine years ago in the Shire…**_

It will soon be best to begin the Harvest  
No time to rest when with work we're blessed

The Grange is full ere October cool  
Feed calf and bull 'til well past Yule

Primula leaned out of the window of the little house, watching as her son bid his 'playmates' goodbye. As usual, she could not see Frodo's companions; only he could see them.

She had at first worried about his 'imaginary playmates', but her father had told her that it wasn't unusual for a faunt to have such friends. Gorbadoc had assured her that eventually Frodo would grow out of it, especially when he began to make friends with other hobbit lads and lasses. It was one reason that Primula liked to spend so much time in Buckland with her folk. Drogo's kin were very nice, but there were more hobbits Frodo's age in Brandy Hall, and he was less withdrawn and lonesome when they visited there.

Her Frodo was now four years old and as sturdy on his legs and healthy as any parent could wish their child to be. Primula was constantly amazed at how quickly her little one was growing. She wished she could somehow slow him down, keep him at this charming age where he was so curious, so dependent on her. She loved to take care of him.

Drogo warned her that she was spoiling the child, but he always said this with a smile and he doted on the lad even as much as she did. Rather than becoming demanding and ungrateful, Frodo thrived in their love and rarely asked for more than he needed.

Frodo was obediently hurrying toward home from the field beyond their house. He loved to run about in this field, where the grasses were almost higher than his head. The ground was smooth and free of obstacles, perfect for a young hobbit to stage his pretend-Adventures.

But this day, there was something unexpected hiding in the grasses that young Frodo did not see as he was running toward home, laughing and waving to his mother. A burrow, perhaps of a rabbit or maybe a badger, opened before his blind feet and he suddenly fell, crying out before his wind was knocked from him as he hit the ground hard.

Primula saw him fall, heard his cry, and was out of the house and running toward him in a moment. She found him lying in the grasses, tears trickling down his face.

"Mum... h--hurts!" Frodo hiccupped. He tried to get up without his mother's help, but one leg would not stand under him. He let out a cry and bit his lip. "Ouch!"

"There, there, Frodo-love! Let Mummy help you," Primula murmured softly, raising her son in her arms. He was a heavy little fellow, but she did not mind carrying him. It tore her heart to see him in pain.

He winced as she picked him up, burying his face in her shoulder. "'M sorry, mummy!"

"Shh, shh... whyever are you sorry, love?" She patted his back, casting her eye up at the sun. Drogo ought to be home already. Her husband had been gone all day with their pony-cart, helping a neighbor.

Frodo wrapped his little arms around her neck. His voice was muffled by the fabric of her shift, "Mm sorry!" He repeated. He began to sob.

She brought him into the house and set him gently down. He cried harder, reluctant to release his hold on her. She eased his hands from around her neck, then took his little foot in her hands gently. Frodo drew in a hissing breath and held it.

His left ankle was reddened and slightly enlarged. She couldn't see any abrasions or bite-marks, which made her sigh with relief; she had feared he had been stung by a serpent. She could see now that it was likely he had merely tripped, but how badly he had hurt himself she could not tell.

Primula spoke soothingly to her son, telling him how brave he was and how proud she was of him, while in her head she wondered what she should do. She wanted to fetch the doctor, but they lived outside of village a few miles, and she could not carry Frodo all that way. Even if she could, there was a good chance that the doctor would not be home. She could not leave her son to fetch anyone, and none of their neighbors were within calling distance. She glanced at the fall of the sunlight on the floor, slanting through the open window. Drogo would be home soon. They would have to wait for him.

Frodo was crying softly; he was trying to be brave but was obviously in considerable pain. Primula sat down next to him on the sofa and wrapped her arms around him.

"What was that song you were singing, Frodo-love, when I called you inside?" Maybe if she could get him to talk a little, he would be distracted from his discomfort.

"Some--something my f--friends t--taught me," Frodo said, sniffing. Primula wiped his face with the corner of her apron.

"Will you sing it for me? I didn't hear all the words." She let him lean against her, careful not to jar his foot or ankle.

Frodo lay across her lap, gathering his hands into fists, clutching her skirts. He began to sing the song again, brokenly at first, but then in a firmer voice as he strove to remember the words. When he finished, he was no longer crying or clinging to her. He stroked the fabric of her skirts as if to press away the wrinkles.

"That was a lovely song, Frodo!" Primula smoothed his curls back from his brow. She felt a touch of fever there, and her heart leapt inside her. Drogo must come home soon! "However did you make up all those words?"

"I didn'," Frodo said softly. He turned his head and looked up at his mother. His eyes blue as cornflowers in May. "M' friends sing'd it to me."

Primula did not correct him, though surely he must have heard the song from some farmer or maybe from his cousin Bilbo, who often sang or read stories to the lad. She looked up as she heard the sound of hooves on the road outside their cottage. She called out in a calm, firm voice, praying it was her husband finally returned.

"Prim! Wha--?" Drogo came running into the house, and Primula held up a hand to caution him not to shout and frighten Frodo.

"He fell, and I think he hurt his foot, dear. Can you go and fetch Mr. Feverfew?" She looked significantly at her spouse. "If he isn't home, he might be at the Burrow's; Lacy's about to deliver soon."

"At once, dear heart! You stay right there. Frodo-lad? You keep watch on your mum, now. Don't let her worry or be sad, okay?" Frodo nodded, reaching out a hand toward his father. Drogo took his little fingers in his own and squeezed them gently, then he turned and hurried back the pony-cart, wheeling it back toward town.

"Now, Frodo-love, your father is going to fetch someone to help us, so I want you to continue to be brave for me. I know your foot hurts; I can almost feel it, myself. I want you to listen to me. All right?"

Frodo nodded, then murmured tightly, "Yes, Mummy."

"Listen to me, Frodo-love. If your leg hurts, just look at me. I am going to sing you a song, and when the song finishes, your Dada should be back." Primula began to sing softly, a lullaby that her grandmother had sung her and her brothers and sisters. It was a simple melody that one could sing a child to sleep with easily, repeating the words with a smooth bridge. She didn't know how long it would take Drogo to find the doctor, but she knew she would sing the song and hold her son until they arrived.

Frodo looked straight at her. His foot really did hurt a lot, but the sound of her voice was soothing, and it was easier to keep from crying if he knew that she could see his face. He lay in her lap and watched her mouth as she sang, and after a few verses he began to sing along, too. Eventually, he closed his eyes and slept a little. Primula was grateful, for the tears she had held in could now fall without inflicting more pain on her sensitive child.

"Poor Frodo, poor baby," she whispered, cooing to the melody of the lullaby. She bent and brushed his forehead with a kiss.

⌂

Frodo came to himself out of his memory at the sound of tapping on his door. Probably Sam, bringing a tray for elevenses, Frodo thought. He glanced at himself once more before turning to open the door. No, he could not see his mother reflected in himself, but he could still hear her kind voice singing in his heart.

He carefully blotted his eyes dry before opening the door for Sam.

**IV**

**Sister's Son**

Frodo opened the door, but to his surprise Samwise was not standing there with his tea tray.

"Sa... Rorimac! W... welcome, sir!" Frodo opened the door to his study and allowed his elder to enter. "I am sorry; I thought you were Samwise, tapping on the door with elevenses."

Rorimac tried not to appear too amused by Frodo's lost composure. "Well, I _am_ early, lad. This is what comes of allowing my wife to set the pace. Menegilda had us packed and in the waggon before the stablehand had the pony harnessed! She is all keen to get busy gossiping with Elgantine and Esmeralda."

Rory took a good look at his nephew, who was hesitating beside his desk, not wishing to seat himself before his master. "You look fit, Frodo. Life in Hobbiton seems to be agreeing with you."

"Thank you, sir. Can I offer you some tea? You must have only just arrived." Frodo made as if to return to the door, but Rory held up a staying hand.

"I'm fine at the moment, lad. I can wait for luncheon. I wanted to come and talk to you, since we got here in such good time. Sit down, lad."

Frodo sat, his hands on his lap beneath the desk. He could not overcome this feeling of self-consciousness that sitting down in front of Rory always brought upon him. 'I've done nothing wrong; why do I feel so guilty?' he thought. His palms were sweating. He struggled not to rub them on his trousers.

Rorimac was looking around the study, noting the titles of books and pausing to examine the maps that were framed and hung on the walls. After what seemed like an hour (though it was really only a moment) Rory turned to him and offered him the grimace that usually passed as a smile for the old hobbit.

"It is hard to believe that you are all ready come of age, my lad... I guess I should not call you that. You aren't a lad anymore, but a hobbit full-grown. So many years have passed..." his voice trailed off, and Frodo felt Rory's eyes on his face. Frodo could only return his gaze evenly. He knew what Rory was seeing; not Frodo, himself, but the shadow of Frodo's mother whom everyone said he resembled so much.

Rorimac sighed and closed his eyes, sinking at last into a chair. He rubbed his forehead as if it pained him. His voice came out as a gentle growl. "I can't help but think that your mother would be very vexed with me, Frodo. I felt I was doing the right thing, letting Bilbo take you in and adopt you. I still believe it was the right thing, but a part of me wishes I had not allowed it. I should have kept you at the Hall and raised you like one of my own sons."

Frodo wasn't sure what to say. Sitting there across his desk, Rory suddenly looked very old and very tired. Frodo felt his apprehension and doubt suddenly melt away.

"Sir, if you'll permit me to say it, I think that my mother would not be upset at all. I am very happy here. Bilbo has taught me many things, and he has been very kind to me. I have tried to become the hobbit that I think that Mother and Father would have hoped I could become." Frodo took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "A hobbit that you might be proud of, too."

Rorimac opened his eyes wide and looked at Frodo. "I _am_ proud, boy-- Frodo! Don't think I am not! I--" Rorimac began to chuckle and shook his head. "I am such an old fool! What was I doing all these years, watching you grow up and never saying a word of encouragement? I was hiding from you! I missed some of the greatest moments of your life, because I was wallowing in grief for what I had lost. I can only hope that it isn't too late now."

Frodo swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat. "Too late for what, sir?"

"To get to know you, lad. To be a part of your life. I know I am not as colourful and merry as your cousin Bilbo—how does he keeps his energy at his age? I'd like to learn that secret! –but I would welcome the chance to spend some time with you, once this Party business is over and done. Maybe you could come to Buckland for a spell, and catch your old Uncle Rory up on the last eleven years of your life?"

Frodo sat stunned in his chair, saying nothing. Rorimac's face fell a little, and he nodded sharply, as if he had expected this or worse. "I know that it's been too long, lad, er... Frodo. The only thing an old hobbit regrets more than the mistakes he has made is the things he never did, but should have. I understand if you don't want to come..."

"No!" Frodo leaned forward in his chair, a hand raised as if to erase the words his uncle was speaking. "No, that isn't what I... I mean, I would be..." he lost his words, and then began to laugh. Rorimac looked at him with hope coming back into the lines of his weathered face.

Frodo rose and came around the desk, sitting on the corner facing his uncle. "Rorimac, this is not at all what I expected to hear from you today! Forgive me my wonder and tangled tongue! I sat here like a guilty boy in a corner, waiting for my uncle to come and punish me—and I did deserve many of the licks you gave, sir; I was a rascally child!—I was so wound up and afraid that I forgot something very important. I want to thank you for reminding me of it, sir."

"What was it that you had forgotten?" Rorimac asked, trying to get his gruff voice back in spite of the smile that was tugging at his lips.

Frodo looked at him with an earnest smile. "I had forgotten that I had another Uncle. Rorimac, I would very much like to come and visit Buckland, to spend time with you. We have a lot of catching up to do, indeed."

Rorimac's smile was wide and genuine. He coughed and gave a brief nod. Frodo knew that this was all the emotion that he was likely to see from his elder. Rory had rarely shown affection even upon his own sons, and hugs and embraces embarrassed the old hobbit. He stood up and offered Frodo his hand, shaking it firmly.

Rory released Frodo's hand and turned to leave. With one hand on the door-latch, he paused and turned back around. "I nearly forgot! Your Birthday present!" He reached into his coat and withdrew a small package wrapped in cloth. It was rather heavy.

Frodo unwrapped it. It was a small stone with a flat side, and for a moment, Frodo thought it was the same stone that he had given Rory on his own birthday, eleven years ago before Bilbo had taken him away to Hobbiton. His heart clenched; why would Rory give it back now?

Then he noticed that it was not the same stone. The one he had given was a rosy quartz with a golden hue. This stone was very different; a steely grey shell with a deep blue crystalline structure inside, like a geode. It was polished to a brilliant shine. Frodo recognized the substance.

"This is a sapphire! I have never seen one so huge!"

Rory chuckled. "I remember how you used to collect all those odd stones and show them to your mum and dad, whenever you found them. A trader brought this by the Hall a while back... I thought about you and picked it up."

"It must be worth... it is magnificent!" Frodo examined it from all angles.

Rorimac chuckled and said, "You'll notice I only gave you _half!_" They laughed together. Rory opened the door.

Frodo was staring at the fine stone in his hands. "How long ago..." he said softly. He was remembering the blue stone he had called a star-fire that his mother had liked so much. He had left it with her when he had said goodbye; his last gift.

"Hmmm?" Rory had stepped outside the door. He leaned back in and said, "What did you ask?"

Frodo looked up. "How long ago did you trade for this, uncle?" He amended his thought. Some pain did not need to be shared, when two hearts already felt the same loss.

Rory gave his nephew a small smile. "About ten years or so. See you at nuncheon, son." He closed the door gently.


	7. Chapter 7 The LongAwaited Party

**Chapter 7**  
_in four parts_

**I**

**The Day of the Party**

It was the day of The Party, and as fine a day as any could ask for. Down on the Party Field, laughter could already be heard, ringing out like bells in the warm soft sunlight. The open-air kitchen had been a-bustle with activity since before dawn, and now that it was nearing mid-morning, it was center of the attention of any hobbit that might be hungry... which included, of course, _all_ of them!

Laughter, excitement, and cheer; one would expect to see such things in the field that day, for it was Bilbo and Frodo's Birthday, and all of Hobbiton and nearly all of the Shire were in attendance. Up at the Bag End garden, one would expect it to be peaceful, placid, and quiet.

It was not.

"Hol' still, you knobble-kneed ninny! Ah canna see o're tha fence... higher... ah!"

Up over the wooden gate of Bag End's garden poked a wide, woody face with two beetle-black eyes. He and his companion had successfully fought away the drowsiness in their limbs (wood sprites were nocturnal creatures, as a rule) and now he was shading his bright eyes with his plump fingers, squinting in the bright sunlight as he tried to get a good view of the dancing and games across the high hedges and down the road.

"Higher, Stint! Lifting me higher you must! The biggish tent Ah can nearly see..." He gripped the top of the gate as he suddenly wobbled and nearly lost his balance. "Whoa! Steady there!"

The stocky wood sprite was standing on the slim shoulders of a smaller, weedier wood sprite, who was complaining, "Firtle, yer heavier than a water-logged willow-root! I can't... hold... ya up… no… more! Let's just...oops!—let's go down the road to the field and have a look. All the _aewyn_ and _noegth_ are there; we won't be seen!"

"Music!" Firtle was entranced by the wild whistling of the flutes drifting up from the field. He discarded his normal caution and lunged over the gate.

He fell with a splintery crunch onto the ground in the lane, scattering the flowers and leaves of his rosebush disguise. He rolled to his feet and dusted off his flanks, then fell again in a heap as Stint hurled the gate and landed on top of him.

"That was easy! Didn't bend a branch!" exclaimed Stint, primping his leaves. A whining moan came from beneath him. He hastened to help his friend to his feet, brushing dust off of his squashed leaves. "Sorry, Firtle."

Firtle shook himself, slapping away Stint's hand impatiently. He then accepted his friend's proffered arm and they hurried down the lane; two tumbling weeds that seemed to ignore the fact that the wind was coming from a completely different quarter.

They slipped through the hedge that surrounded the field, Firtle losing more of his blossoms and leaves in the process, but not caring in the slightest. They flitted behind the row of tents and around stacked barrels of mead and ale. One barrel was leaking slowly; fat drops of honeywine dripping onto the ground. Stint let some of the drops fall on his leaves; he licked them clean and reached for more. Firtle grabbed him and dragged him beneath the table toward the stage where the music was coming from.

"Ohhhh!" breathed Firtle. They hid themselves within a row of potted plants that circled the raised platform where the musicians were performing. The fat little wood sprite bobbed his head to the music, like a bird hearing the call of another. Stint thrummed with pleasure, his pinkish eyes turning quite red from the wine he had sipped.

One of the hobbits on the platform set his mug of ale down next to the begonias, then turned to pick up his instrument. When he turned back, the mug was overturned. He frowned and shrugged. "Must have tipped it over with m' foot," he thought, and sent someone to fetch him another drink.

From the bushes, the sound of reedy laughter could be heard, and then a hiccough.

⌂

Frodo was enjoying himself at the Party more than he could have guessed. When he had woke that morning, he had felt the press of somber moods upon him. He had hesitated in the bath before breakfast, wondering how he was going to maintain a countenance of happiness while bearing the knowledge that Bilbo would be leaving forever after this day. He steeled himself before the mirror and went to join his cousins and their families waiting in the field below Bag End, where breakfast was being served before the gate officially opened to allow the guests to participate.

He had walked slowly at first, but the colourful pennants set up all around the field were snapping in the soft September air, chattered at him like friendly birds; and when he entered the field through the new white gate, a roar of welcome went up from among his friends and family, already seated around the table. A smile took him then, and it had not left his face once yet.

Guests had begun to arrive in a steady stream, leaking through the gate that Bilbo had ordered built just for this party. There was Bilbo, greeting each one as they came through and passing out presents to all. Frodo was spared having to help; he was to 'enjoy the party and do nothing else!', as his uncle had insisted. Bilbo enjoyed playing the host, so Frodo found himself visiting each amusement that had been devised for the entertainment of their guests.

Among the other attractions, there was a raised stage where musicians were performing for the crowd; one group waiting while others played, so that there was never a long pause between music. Hobbits from all four Farthings had come to play, and to enjoy the hospitality of Bilbo Baggins. There were sets of Dwarves playing, also, and their music was well received, for though as a rule, hobbits did not mix much with Outsiders, the music the Dwarves were playing was not too intricate and very beautiful, and hobbits all love such things.

Next to the stage a table was set with a great hogshead of ale, guarded by the Gaffer himself, who had brewed it especial, just for this occasion. Here was where the storytelling happened, and each tale grew grander as the barrel under the Gaffer's arm gradually grew emptier.

Frodo came round to sample the ale and saw Samwise sitting next to his father, helping pass mugs of ale down the table. Frodo clapped his friend heartily on the back, taking the mug he was offered. "I'm so glad you came! Where are your sisters, Samwise? I want to see those pretty dresses they have made!"

Samwise grinned, getting to his feet; he felt uncomfortable sitting when his master was standing. He pointed over at the crowd in front of the stage, where Marigold, Daisy, and May were skipping together in a circle-dance with several other hobbit-lasses. With them was a lovely lass wearing a pretty blue dress who had a shower of fine golden hair... bound up in a bright green ribbon! Rosie had come, too!

Frodo glanced at Sam, who was now staring dreamily at the lasses, a funny smile on his face. Frodo could not suppress a grin of triumph. He had noticed her, just as Frodo had planned!

Frodo watched the dance, clapping along with the music and wondering if he should try to convince Sam to dance with Rosie, when the music ended abruptly. The lasses collapsed merrily in a swirl of skirts and scarves, giggling breathlessly on the grass. Frodo went forward to help them stand, offering a bow and a gentlemanly hand, when he heard his named called from the stage. He turned and caught Peregrin's wave. The little Took was on the platform, playing a guitar!

"Come on, Frodo! Let's take a turn, too!"

Frodo ran forward eagerly, taking up the drum that someone had laid aside. Merry leaped the Gaffer's table and took a reed whistle out of his pocket, to add a reeling melody to Frodo's beat and Pippin's strumming. They began together a simple tune, and Frodo called out to the clapping crowd, "What shall we sing about? What first?"

This was a game and a song and a story, one that he had played many times at other parties; it was one of Frodo's favourites. The crowd listening must call out random things, and then the singer would have to come up with a verse using that thing, right on the spot.

In the back of the group someone belted out: "Farmer!" There were some cheers from the crowd and laughter ("Siddown, Cotton, ye ol' clumpbuster!). Tom Cotton, who had shouted first, stood and said, "That ought to stump ya, Frodo Baggins! Do y' know any songs about farmers?"

Frodo bowed and sat on the step of the stage, setting the drum between his knees and tapping the skin firmly to coax out a steady beat. Merry and Pippin followed his lead, weaving the traditional tune around the rhythm of the drum.

_"To Hobbiton there came a Farmer  
He was, by chance, a Queen-bee charmer  
He kept her comb inside his home  
He stole her honey but wouldn't harm her!"_

The crowd clapped and laughed, for Frodo's voice was pleasant and the verse was perfect. Now they needed another word. The trick of the game was to bend the song around so that it ended where it started. The words given should be as different from each other as possible, both to make it a challenge for the singer and to make the song last longer. Someone shouted "Wizard!" because Gandalf had just been sighted, coming through the gate with his fireworks in a handcart.

Frodo began instantly to sing;  
_  
"To Hobbiton there came a Wizard  
He arrived one day during a blizzard  
He said, "I desire to sit by the fire  
I promise I won't turn you into a lizard!"_

A huge burst of laughter greeted this verse, and Gandalf bowed toward Frodo and smiled.

Frerín came round from the kitchen at the sound of the shouts, and he called out: Dwarf!" when Frodo waved for the next word. Frodo shook his head as if perplexed, but after half a beat he grinned and began again;  
_  
"To Hobbiton there came a Dwarf  
He traveled here down from the North  
He came to Bag End to meet his Friend  
To find Adventure they both set forth!"_

Applause broke out and some laughter, as it seemed that Frodo would stumble on that awkward word. A giddy child ran forward and shouted, "Goose, goose!" The lass blushed and ran back to hide behind her mother's skirts.

_"To Hobbiton there came a goose  
Several, actually; they all got loose!  
The Farmer was mad; what a time he had!  
In the end, he caught no more than a deuce!"_

Everyone laughed and clapped as the song ended and Frodo and his cousins stood and bowed. They returned the guitar and drum to the musicians from whom they had borrowed them, thanking them courteously.

Merry jumped on Frodo and Pippin's backs, his arms around their necks, laughing with delight. "Frodo, I don't know how you do it! You can make a song out of anything! Let's do it again!"

Frodo laughed. "Let's get some of the Gaffer's homebrew and listen for a spell. Singing is thirsty work!"

Pippin cheered and grabbed his cousins by their hands, dragging them toward the table of ale. Frodo followed obediently, but slowed down when he spotted Bilbo. He was standing at the gate, still welcoming in latecomers. Bilbo was watching him and when he caught Frodo's eye, he gave a wave and a smile.

Frodo knew in that instant that Bilbo had planned it all—all this party and all the amusements—to help him; to distract him from tonight and from every dark possibility that lay in the uncertain future. Today was to be a day of joy, of celebration, of happiness, whatever tomorrow may hold.

Frodo gave his uncle a huge smile and waved back.

**II**

**Tug War**

At Bilbo Baggin's eleventy-first Birthday Party, no expense was spared on food. There was a great pavilion spread, under which were set many tables groaning under the weight of the dishes and dishes of food that the cooks were preparing. Naturally, there was always a great crowd of hobbits gathered around. Frerín and his assistants were kept constantly moving, refreshing empty platters and supplying more delicacies; there were many new Dwarvish recipes presented that none of the hobbits (besides Bilbo) had ever tasted before. When it came to food—especially free food—hobbits became rather more culturally open-minded than their normal wont. Needless to say, none of the victuals were refused or spared.

As the merriment of the party continued, beyond the tables at the edge of the Party Field, two figures stood slightly apart from the other hobbits. They were smiling, just like the others who were enjoying the festivities, and they were standing in the sun with heads together as if sharing a jest. Yet there was something not entirely pleasant in their laughter, and though the day was still high, darkness clung to their faces and voices.

"Everyone is here," one of them said in an undertone. The eyes of both hobbits were fixed on the top of the hill, where Bag End looked out over all the Valley of the Water. The speaker continued, whispering roughly, "Why don't we just go in there and look around? No one would see us."

"No." The other hobbit spoke quietly, but he did not whisper. Whispers attracted attention, he had learned. He often listened to whispers, both for the things said and who spoke them. Whisperers had something to hide. Whisperers did not act.

He repeated, voice firm but still very soft. "No. I will not set foot inside Bag End until it is mine. By the rights of blood it would be mine, if that Mad Baggins had the common decency to grow old and die, as any proper hobbit would at his age. Then my dad would be the Master of the Hill, and... well, let's admit it, he's no spring daisy, himself... it won't be long before he is a dotard old gaffer. I will be Master... in time. All I need is time..."

"What about Frodo?"

The second hobbit turned a scathing glare at the first as he spoke the name of his most hated relative, then returned to his patient regard to Bag End's terraced gardens. "Ted, I told you not to mention that name in my presence."

"Sorry, Lotho! Er... Mr. Lotho, sir!" Ted added with a touch of resentment. "But what about... _him?_ He will inherit Bag End now and he's younger even than you. If you must wait for him to grow old and die, too, you won't have much time to enjoy it!"

Lotho's beady eyes turned from the Hill and sought the crowd, picking out the dark, curly-haired head of his nemesis; Frodo was sitting and drinking with his mates, laughing at some remark Gaffer Gamgee had just made. Lotho's pleasant smile remained fixed, but his eyes were cold with loathing. He said, "Oh, I don't think we'll have to worry about Master Baggins... something tells me he won't be with us for very long." His icy stare swept up the Hill again, and though he looked composed, his hand gripped his mug tightly until his knuckles shone white. "I wonder if I shall keep Gamgee on as the gardener... I must confess, the grounds do look splendid," he answered Ted's surprised gape a bitter half-smile, "but I think I will get more pleasure out of sacking him and turning his entire family out of their hole!

"Happy Birthday..." Lotho raised his mug and made a mock toast toward Frodo, saying under his breath, "... to me!"

⌂

"It does burn smoothly; I'll give you that," agreed Paladin with a breath of smoke, mumbling a little around the pipe stem, "but it has not the flavour of a good southern weed. What say you, Gamgee?"

The Gaffer drew on his pipe, letting the smoke roll on his tongue like wine. Any other day of the year, he would have been silent and diffident in such august company; but today the ale and food had brought the many facets of the culture of the Shire together as if they were equals. Gaffer Gamgee nodded at the Thain, taking the pipe from his mouth to say, "Well seasoned it is, aye, my lord... just the right amount of time hanging, I'd say. But it tastes like it has ripened too long in the field; a hint of bitterness, like a late rain might've delayed the harvest."

Rorimac grunted as he scraped his bowl with a short, sharp knife and tapped out the spent ashes. "A good farmer will bring his weed in before autumn's first flooding rain... but I've tasted better than this. From out of Bree there comes a weed that is savoury with a hint of mint-herb. Tastes like nothing I have ever had out of Southfarthing."

"I've never tried it," Paladin drew on his own pipe, his face meditative. "I don't suppose you have a sample of this 'savoury weed' with you, Buckland," he said doubtfully, as if he thought Rorimac was having a joke on him. "It's a long ride to Bree from Tuckburough!"

Rorimac eyed him while fishing around in his waistcoat for a moment, bringing out a leather wallet. He tossed it to Paladin with a challenging glare. "There! If you've ever tasted the like, I'd be surprised, Took! They don't grow it like that in the Southfarthing!"

Frodo, Merry, and Samwise were sitting at the end of the same table where Rorimac, Paladin, and the Gaffer were amicably arguing together. Peregrin had gone to get more food while the lads took a break from the endless games and dancing. Frodo was drinking a mug of ale that Samwise had fetched him from his Gaffer's barrel; it was strong and dark brown, almost black. Frodo liked it, but it hardly tasted like ale at all.

"What kind of beer is this?" he had asked, and the Gaffer had snorted with laughter, urging him to drink up. "Tha'll make you feel your age, Master Baggins! Put hair on yer toes, it will!"

Frodo laughed with him, taking another drink, "I already have hair on my toes, Gaffer, sir!"

"Tha'll throw a curl in it, then! Not for the young or the green, that brew."

Merry had sipped from Frodo's mug and made a face. "It tastes like someone made tea with muddy water from the Brandywine," he gasped, after his coughing fit had ceased. Overhearing, the Gaffer had grinned as if he had been paid a high compliment.

The talk of the adults swung back to pipeweed, and the younger hobbits became more interested in the tray of food that Pippin had returned with. The cakes and pudding disappeared in a thrice, and then they were all keen to a bit more play.

"Come on!" Merry said, taking Frodo's arm. "They're tug-wrestling over there! I've a score to settle with you, Master Baggins!" He propelled his cousin toward the two wooden boxes set in a wide circle of sand, a rope lying on the ground between. A ring of young hobbits gathered round to watch.

"A score… with _me?_" Frodo asked, feigning innocence. "Why? Just because I have beaten you every single time we have ever taken to the boxes?" Laughter erupted at his words, and Merry's face flushed, though his grin was still good-natured.

"Roll up your sleeves, my good cousin. You will not find it so easy this year!" Merry stepped up on one of the boxes. Pippin ran up and picked up one end of the rope, ready to hand it to Merry.

Frodo was still laughing, but he made a show of removing his vest and his cuff-links, handing them to Samwise for safekeeping. "If I am destined to be on my face in the sand, let me keep my party clothes clean, lest no maiden care to dance with me!" He stepped up on the other box. Sam handed him the other end of the rope, which Frodo took in his left hand.

Pippin gave Merry his end of the rope, and the cousins wound the cord around their wrists until it stretched between them loosely, a few inches off of the ground. They gave each other a little bow to signal that they were ready.

The rope became taunt as it was pulled, each hobbit trying to unseat the other from the box on which they stood. The hobbits watching cheered, shouting advice and speculations on who would win the match.

Merry's face was red; he was pulling steadily and leaning away from Frodo, determined to pull him off of his box. Frodo had braced his legs and merely held on with his left hand, making no effort to pull his younger cousin down. "You are stronger than last year, Merry," Frodo said, his voice showing a touch of strain as his hand began to shake.

Merry pulled all the harder, but it seemed as if his rope was tied around a rock; Frodo did not move. Merry's other hand moved as if to grasp the rope, but he did not. That would have ended the match as his loss. The ropes could only be pulled one-handed, and whoever dropped his rope or stepped off his box first was the loser.

A long minute passed, then the colour was rising in Frodo's face as well, and his smile grew broader. "I may have to switch to my right hand next year, Merry!"

"You... should have... done that... this year!" Merry breathed, leaning back as far as he dared. The box he was standing on scooted forward a few inches, leaving deep ruts in the sand.

Suddenly the sound of a brassy horn cut through the chatter of the crowd, announcing that it was time for tea. Frodo looked toward Merry apologetically, then rotated his body to his left and pulled Merry smartly off his box, as if he were a fish on the line. The hobbits broke out in cheers.

Frodo gave Merry a hand up from the sand, brushing off his clothes while his cousin laughed. "I will beat you at that game, someday, Frodo Baggins!"

"Maybe," Frodo said, tousling Merry's hair, "when I am as old as Bilbo..." Merry sputtered and threw down the rope, chasing Frodo toward the dining tables; they were both laughing.

**III**

**The Corn Dolly**

Bilbo watched with delight as swarms of young hobbits chased around the Party Field, like ducks after June bugs, squealing with laughter. The toys from Dale were a huge success; the children were entranced by them.

Tiny musical instruments that really played, incredibly life-like carved animals with jeweled eyes that seemed to look at you, miniature waggons with wheels that turned, and many, more interesting things, all brightly painted and beautiful, so wonderfully made that they appeared magical.

Bilbo knew he had seen at least one pair of faunts come through the gate three different times, to receive extra presents. Bilbo did not care; he hid his smile and greeted them anew, handing them prizes for their audacity. He watched with pleasure as they hurried into the field to share them with their friends, crowing at their own perceived cleverness.

But amid the feast of enjoyment and laughter, a shadow was growing. Bilbo was aware of it, heard a voice mumbling on the edge of his hearing, and he knew instantly that there would be trouble soon. He glanced around alertly, trying to catch it before anything began and spoiled the day. Just as he was beginning to relax again he heard a wail of despair cut through the music and chatter. He moved swiftly toward the sound, then gasped as he heard a stern, angry voice demand, "Be quiet, and give it back, you wicked little thief!" He saw a broad hobbit-woman standing over a sobbing child.

"What's this? What's this?" Bilbo asked gently, lowering himself onto one knee to comfort the weeping girl, no more than three or four years old. "Are you hurt, child?"

"Mr. Baggins!" the woman's voice was much more civilized that it had been a moment ago. "Mr. Baggins, I am sorry to cause a scene, but it was brought to my attention that Briaret took a toy that did not belong to her."

Bilbo turned to face the woman, trying to remember her name, "Miss..."

"Fardowns, sir. Miss Aster Fardowns. I came down with my cousins from Northfarthing. Up in Oatbarton, we don't let our children take things that don't belong to them." She glared at the child as if the little girl had deliberately embarrassed her. Briaret, still crying, hid behind Bilbo's legs.

The woman continued speaking breathily, casting glances at the small group of hobbits who had paused when she had shouted, "This is my cousin's daughter; I was watching her while her mother visited with some of the other ladies. She received a lovely carved horse as a gift when we arrived, but I found her playing with this, also, which clearly she must have taken from another child. I meant for her to give it back." She held in her hands a small doll with cornsilk hair and a tiny, perfectly painted porcelain face. Briaret was staring at it with a shattered look.

Bilbo put a gentle hand on Briaret's head. "Miss Fardowns, I think that there has been some mistake." Bilbo's voice was still very soft, though his temper was spiking. He had seen Lobelia's bitter smile as she slipped away from the scene, and he was willing to bet any amount of gold that she was somehow behind this ugly drama. He smiled at the little girl, then at Aster Fardowns. "You see, I gave that doll to this child, and I would like her to have it." He held out his hand.

"But, Mr Baggins! She already has..."

"Please, Miss Fardowns. I gave her both toys, as I have freely given to all the guests who have come today. That is my happy entitlement, as this is my birthday and my party. Surely in Oatbarton, as in anywhere in the Shire, a happy child is a heartwarming sight."

The woman seemed nonplused; she slowly placed the toy in Bilbo's hand. He took it and turned, squatting down so that he was eye to blotchy eye with the miserable child.

"Your name is Briaret? What a pretty name! Look, Briaret! Here is your dolly. She misses you. Will you take her and give her a good home?" He held it out to her, smiling gently.

Briaret hesitated, her eyes turning toward her stern cousin for permission. She looked longingly at the doll, then slowly took it from Bilbo's hand, cradling it tenderly like a baby. She looked back at Miss Fardowns to make sure she wasn't in trouble again, and sniffled.

Bilbo thought that his heart would melt. He reached into a pocket and drew out a colourfully wrapped sweet, pressing it into her hand. "Now, run and play, and no more tears today! Would you like to hear a story later?" Briaret nodded, her face hopeful and excited, her forgotten tears still moist on her cheeks. "Go and gather up your friends and wait beneath the Party Tree for me. I shall come shortly and give you all a good story!" She nodded again, turning quickly to obey him so that her pretty party frock swirled around her feet.

Bilbo stood up, turning to speak to Miss Fardowns again, but he found himself being hugged around his knees by the same little girl. He laughed and patted her head again, sending her off to find the others.

"I do apologize, Mr. Baggins," Miss Fardowns repeated stiffly. "I was misinformed. Please forgive my behaviour. It's just that I am responsible for Briaret when her mother is elsewhere..."

"It's forgotten, Miss Fardowns," Bilbo said smoothly, offering Aster his arm. He led her over to the food tables, waving away those hobbits who still lingered, trying to find out if there was anything still going on worth gossiping about. "Please, do try some of this excellent food. The cooks have out-done themselves! You should look about and maybe have a dance or two. In that pretty dress, you ought to be dancing!" Aster blushed profusely, her embarrassment fading before Bilbo's flattery. "The children shall come to no mischief, I promise. Get you something to eat and enjoy yourself. Fun isn't just for children and old hobbits!"

Bilbo dug into another pocket and brought out another small package, wrapped in foiled paper. "This is for you, Miss. Please, enjoy the party." He left her standing, her face softening as she clutched the gift.

As he made his slow but steady way to the place where his small audience awaited, he entertained the notion of finding Lobelia and giving her a thing or two to think about. But he resisted the temptation, his anger now cooled by the sight of Miss Fardowns smiling and laughing, with a new jeweled butterfly pin in her hair, and Briaret playing happily with her baby doll. He felt no desire to speak to Lobelia; the trouble she had attempted had come to naught, and all the damage he could do to her had already been done, the moment he had adopted Frodo and changed his will. He had known she would strike out in any way she could, and if that was all the harm she was capable of, then Bilbo did not worry. After all, nothing had been broken that could not be fixed.

He thrust the incident from his mind, claiming a mug of the Gaffer's home-brew ale before meeting his eager young Adventures beneath the sprawling tree.

**IV**

**Matchmaker**

The sun was beginning to sidle toward the western horizon, and as the air cooled and the lanterns were lit, the hobbits's excitement rose to a new level. As the children and some of the younger folk gathered to listen to Bilbo tell tales, a group of musicians from the Northfarthing took to the stage and began to play. The trilling of flutes called the older 'tweens and gentle-hobbits to the dancing area, as if by a magical summons. Old Marduke Underhill stood up and delivered the call-dance, directing the couples in a spinning, weaving reel that left them breathless and calling for wine and ale.

Frodo stood along the side of the dance area, clapping and stamping along with the others. When the call-dance ended, he let himself be dragged forward for the Springle-ring, one of his favourite dances. He and the other young adult hobbits took turns capering before a line of maidens who looked on as if shopping for fabric at the market. The lasses then turned in step to begin their own dance, skirts and scarves a-swirl as the lads formed a ring and danced in the opposite direction.

When the music ended, whichever maiden stood before a lad was then expected to dance with him in the next set. Frodo was not surprised to find Rosie next to him. He bowed low to her and she took his proffered hand, helping her up from a deep curtsy. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Ted Sandyman, frowning at him as if he had stolen his partner.

"How did you manage to contrive to become my partner, Miss Cotton?" Frodo asked as he whirled Rosie lightly around, the music moving them and the other couples like leaves in a strong current.

Rosie smiled and turned in his hands. "I did promise to dance with you, Frodo." Her smile did not falter, but he heard a pleading note in her voice, "You wouldn't make me dance with Ted, would you?"

Frodo laughed and raised his arms to meet hers, as the dancers formed an arch for the couples to promenade beneath. When their turn came, Frodo offered a gentlemanly arm to her. Rosie laid her hand on his arm and as they ducked beneath the raised hands of the others, Frodo caught sight of Sam's face, watching from the crowd of onlookers.

"I think that there is someone else you'd rather be dancing with, Rosie-lass," Frodo murmured in her ear.

Rosie nodded her head, but her smile faded a little. She glanced toward where Sam was sitting. "If only he would ask me... he's shy as a dragonfly!" Rosie sighed.

"I'll be celebrating my eleventy-first birthday before he gets the nerve up to speak to you! I don't think we shall wait that long!" Frodo thought furiously for a moment. All his schemes over the years had been foiled one by one, and this opportunity was just too perfect to let go. "Dance round the circle by yourself, fair Rose, and be ready to catch your dragonfly!"

Samwise was sitting at his Gaffer's table, turned away from the dancing and clutching his mug. He couldn't resist taking an occasional glance over his shoulder, looking for the flash of golden hair and listening for the ringing laugh of the maiden he admired. Seeing her dance with someone else, even Master Frodo, made a flush rise from his collar that had nothing to do with the beer he was sipping.

When Frodo was sure that Ted had his hands full, leading Begonia Banks beneath the arches, he whirled Rosie around with extra force, sending himself spinning into the crowd straight toward the table where Samwise was sitting. He turned and flopped onto the seat with a chuckle, his eyes dancing with blue mischief and merriment. He took the half-full mug from Samwise and drained it.

"Go on, Sam! Ask Rosie for a dance!" Frodo urged him with a laugh.

Sam's flush crept up past his ears. He looked so uncomfortable that Frodo thought he must be sitting on a thistle. "Erm... I think I'll just have another ale," Sam mumbled, rising abruptly from the table. Frodo stared up at him in disbelief.

"Oh, no you don't!" Frodo exclaimed. He took Sam by the shoulders and turned him about, then pushed him out into the dance circle just as Rosie swept by. "Go on!"

Rosie caught Sam's hands as he stumbled forward and he staggered only a little, his hands closing on hers with a look of half-terror, half-rapture on his face.

Rosie smiled at Sam and said, "I thought you were never going to ask me to dance!"

Sam stuttered, "I... I didn't... you were a-dancin' with Mr. Frodo..." he looked around, as if to offer her back to him.

Rosie clasped his hands tighter. "Frodo who?" she asked with a wink.

She led him in into the dance; her hand drew his to her waist and held it there so that he could not let go without giving offense. After a few steps, he would not have let her go even if the music had stopped. His eyes were full of sun-coloured hair and her dazzling smile, and he felt his feet, which had before felt as clumsy as bricks, become light and graceful as he looked into the summer-sky blue of her sparkling eyes. Every other hobbit on the grounds seemed to vanish in that moment.

Frodo accepted a full mug of ale from the Gaffer, raising it to salute Rosie and Sam as they danced by, and was both pleased and just a little jealous that neither seemed to notice him at all. He drained his mug, clapped the Gaffer on the back, and walked boldly over to a group of giggling lasses. He bowed politely and said, "Miss May Gamgee, as your brother has stolen my dance-partner, would you do me the honour?"

May blushed and accepted his hand, and they joined the circle of spinning couples, dancing the sun into its cradle until the sky began to fill with stars, and Gandalf's magnificent fireworks erupted over their heads.


	8. Chapter 8 Out With A Bang

**Chapter 8**  
_in three parts_

**I**

**Fireworks**

It was agreed among the hobbits, even before the first glowing bursts had faded from the sky: like old Winyards mellowing in the cellars, the fireworks of Gandalf improved with age.

Tales of the works of the Grey Wizard had become local legend, expanded and elaborated upon until they had become mythical in proportion. As children the hobbits had heard stories from their gaffers and gammers who had been lucky enough to witness Gandalf's works. Those children grown up had, in turn, told those tales to their own children; but even so, the revelers at Bilbo's party could not have been prepared for the magnificence to which they were served. Singing, dancing, even eating was suspended as the colourful fires and smokes spread across he sky. It was beautiful and frightening beyond the imagination.

Frodo had been looking forward especially to the fireworks, for he knew better than most what to expect. Bilbo had told him often about the fireworks that had been seen at the tribute to the Old Took, when he had passed nearly a hundred years ago; it was one of Frodo's favourite of all Bilbo's tales. Even knowing what to expect—when the first rocket climbed skyward in a column of brown smoke, branching out in tendrils like limbs bursting with green sparks, then showering stars like golden flowers that drifted to the ground—Frodo was as awe-struck and transfixed as the simplest hobbit present. A cup of cider he held loosely in his hand tipped and spilled a sweet stream to the grass; though its flavour was still in his mouth, now it was forgotten; he stared upward blinking with surprise, his heart pounding after every crackling boom, his eyes unnaturally bright and filled with shooting stars and wonder.

Frodo felt a hand on his shoulder, turned to see Bilbo standing beside him, smiling up at the lighted sky. The stars were dancing in his wise, old eyes, and the fine lines on his face disappeared with each flashing light, giving him a youthful appearance, so that he appeared as the brave adventurer of Frodo's daydreams; the hobbit that never looked back, the hobbit that could do whatever had to be done.

Frodo felt his sadness returned to him suddenly: Bilbo was leaving, leaving this very night! Frodo felt his heart would be torn in two. He turned back toward the glittering fountains of light, trying to swallow the lump that tightened his throat. He did not want to spoil the mood with tears.

Bilbo's firm hand on his shoulder gave him the strength to hold his emotions in check. Gratitude toward his uncle swept him again into joy, and he turned his sparkling eyes to him, saying, "This is all magnificent, Bilbo! Gandalf truly is a Wizard!"

"Well, wizardry is more than making pretty lights and loud noises, from what I have learned," said Bilbo, "but I won't debate with you now, lad. He does indeed make the best fireworks in all Middle-earth!" There was another terrific burst, and a flight of scintillating birds rose into the air, singing with sweet voices. Bilbo and Frodo applauded along with the other hobbits. Bilbo patted Frodo's shoulder and murmured in his ear, "Come with me, Frodo, while everyone is distracted. I have something I want to talk with you about."

Frodo followed him, curious to know what his uncle wished to say. Above their heads lightning flashed and great banks of silver clouds showered the hobbits with golden raindrops. Instead of getting them all wet, the shimmering rain fell among them as glittering flowers that disappeared like soap bubbles bursting, leaving a sweet scent on the night breeze.

⌂

"Glowing gollywogs! Sky she is burning!" Firtle cowered behind the large tree and covered his eyes with his hands, trying to block out the blinding lights. Stint was standing and staring in stunned amazement at the sight, a pilfered mug of ale in his twiggy hands. Neither of the wood sprites had ever seen anything like this, nor even heard rumour of it.

"Is it the dragon?" Stint asked, edging around to hide behind his bulkier companion. "I heard tell there was a green one around here somewhere... they breathe fire, you know!"

Firtle shook his head in disgust. "'S no dragon Ah be seeing, Stint! Thou'rt gone to seed in spirits! 'Tis but fireflies we be seeing now... naught but fireflies!"

"Fireflies in halig-monath (September)? If you believe that, then it's you that's in his cups!" The thin wood sprite shed his fear as he watched. If it were no dragon, then it was nothing to hide from. He did not want Firtle to think him afraid. He saw the grey-clad old man waving a stick through the air, showering a crowd of laughing children with brilliant butterflies. "You're right, Firtle! There is no dragon! Wonderful wands! Old grey one, he we have seen before! He saved _aewn_-Frodo and brought him home! Remember, Firtle?"

"Of course Ah remember! A fire-bringer he is! _Dagda Lasgalen_ named him so. Fire is danger!" Firtle tugged on Stint's arm, trying to move him away from the party. "Going back to the garden we should be! No place for us is this... fire is death!"

"No! Grey Firebringer is good. He saved _awen_, and he is an Elf-friend. I want to make fire with a wand, too!" Stint pulled his arm free of Firtle's hands and darted toward the food tent, running swiftly under the trestle table, heedless of the hundreds of hobbit-feet.

Firtle stared after him in terror, torn between the dark safety of Bag End garden, and the desire to stay with his friend. "Stint!" he hissed, "No! Oh, botherbees!" Firtle gathered himself and dashed after Stint.

He caught up with his friend under the waggon between the food tent and the ale cart. Firtle was panting for breath, and Stint shushed him, pointing upward excitedly. There was a thump above them, and a swirl of grey robes as the wizard collected something from the cart and then turned away. Both sprites could hear his delighted chuckle as he hurried back to the children who were chanting his name.

"Now!" Stint scrambled up to stand on Firtle's head, reaching over the edge of the waggon, then pulling himself up over the side to fall with a rustle into it. Firtle glanced around in great concern; fortunately, the hobbits were either engrossed with their food and drink, or transfixed by the fireworks; after a bellow of a boom, an army of silver spears leapt into the sky with an echoing cry like a shout of war, then spread out in a vast circle that came down on the far side of the Pool and the Water itself. Firtle trembled with fear.

Stint groped around and found the biggest package he could lift, then he scrambled out of the back of the waggon and dropped to the ground. He grinned at Firtle. "Is this big enough? Hee hee!" he began to drag the thing around the back of the tent.

Firtle shook his head, rolling his bright black eyes heavenward. "Why am Ah saddled with this... this... hinny-nammer?" he asked himself. Shaking his head, he looked both directions and then ran after Stint. Hopefully, he would be able to prevent the silly wood sprite from setting fire to himself!

⌂

"Merry, I am hungry! Can't we go and get some more bread and cheese?"

"It's almost dinner-time, Pippin! Doesn't that cavern you call a belly ever get filled?"

Merry was toting his cousin Pippin on his shoulders, so that the little hobbit could clearly see the fireworks. Pippin had one of his fists clenched in Merry's thick hair, but he was careful not to pull any of it out. In his other hand, he held a sparkler which was shooting out blue, green, and purple lights. Together they watched the fires climb skyward and spread like ripples when a stone is dropped in a pool. It was just grand, far better than anything they had heard of or had seen before.

But Merry's shoulders were getting tired. Pippin was growing fast, and he was a healthy little fellow. "All right! Let's get some food while the others are mesmerized by the lightshow." Merry set Pippin down and ruffed his hair. "You are going to be too big to carry soon, though, if you keep eating like this!"

"Then I shall carry you, cousin!" Pippin responded pertly. They walked toward the food tent, Pippin waving his sparkler and delighting in the lingering ribbons of lights. Merry fetched him a plate of hard-boiled eggs wrapped with sausage, with a helping of slivered carrots, red and green peppers, cucumbers, mushrooms, and squash in a vinegary sauce. From the corner of his eye, Merry spotted Frodo and Bilbo coming toward the tent, heading to a quiet corner where the folded flap made a private space.

Merry seized Pippin's collar and pulled him out of the tent, hurrying around to the side where Bilbo and Frodo were. He wanted to listen to what they were saying, but the chattering of the crowd and the banging of the crackers and squibs drowned out their soft voices. Merry handed Pippin the plate and motioned for him to be very quiet. Merry pressed his ear against the tent fabric. He could only barely hear Bilbo's soft voice speaking...

Pippin wondered what Merry was up to, but he didn't argue when he was handed his plate. He stuck his sparkler in the ground nearby, then turned his attention to the food. He knew that Merry would fill him in on whatever he managed to hear, so he fixed his eyes on the sky above, munching on the spicy eggs and wishing he had a cool cup of cider to wash them down with.

⌂

Stint waved the wand he had found, which was rather heavy and awkward with the package on the end of it. It looked like a big red worm, with golden stripes and papery wings. He wondered why it wouldn't spark and fly like the others sky-fires. He waved and flicked it again. It remained inert.

Disappointed, he thrust the thing into the ground and sat down in a huff. Firtle was laughing at him, and that made him angry. He tried to ignore his friend's teasing.

"Told you Ah did, Stint! Fire and wood it doesn't mix! The wand let it lay, and back to the garden go we, where we belong! The glowing twig you cannot make, to set the tail burning!"

There was suddenly a rustle of fabric as the tent was pushed aside, and two young hobbits ran past Firtle and Stint. Merry and Pippin did not see the wood sprites, as it was quite dim behind the tent and Firtle and Stint looked very much like two denuded shrubberies, one thin and one thick-limbed. The smaller of the two hobbits thrust his sparkling stick into the ground not far from where Stint stood.

The wood sprite stared at the glowing stick, then looked back at his inert wizard wand. It just might work...

**II**

**The Cost of Conspiracy**

Frodo followed his uncle, eager and yet not so, to hear what Bilbo would say to him. The day had passed in laughter and joy, but the hour of farewell was drawing near and both hobbits were determined not to spoil the mood, or Bilbo's surprise.

Frodo saw Merry and Pippin briefly before they disappeared behind the tent. Smiling to himself, Frodo wondered what mischief they might be up to together. He looked around for Sam, saw him standing next to Rosie, watching the fireworks. Both Sam and Rose were wearing expressions of wonder; their hands hanging between them barely touching.

Bilbo took Frodo's arm abruptly, a look of profound annoyance on his face. "Sackville-Bagginses!" he hissed, steered his nephew toward the corner of the tent to avoid an encounter with their stickliest relatives. They pressed themselves against the canvas and grew very still. Of all hobbits in the Shire, few possessed the ability of disappearing better than Bilbo Baggins, even without help from his useful ring, and Frodo has spent a lot of time with his skillful uncle, learning all that he knew.

Even though Lobelia and Otho Sackville-Baggins passed merely an arm's length from where they were, neither saw Bilbo or Frodo standing there. Lobelia looked around sharply, her face furrowed in irritation.

"I know I saw him come this way! I want you to confront him about this 'will' nonsense of his, Otho. He can't just give away your rightful inheritance! Not after all this time we've waited! You can persuade him to change it!"

"He must have gone over to the ale-maker's waggon," Otho said. "I'll get a couple of mugs in him and then he'll listen to reason. I can't believe he's really signing it all over to that outsider from Buckland. The family won't stand for it! I won't stand for it! We'll just see..."

Their bitter voices faded as they moved away, covered by the smattering of applause and gasps of delight from the crowd of hobbits as another burst of light illuminated the air over the Party Field. In the brilliant flash, Frodo thought he saw strange shapes shadowed beyond the fabric of the tent, but Bilbo was speaking to him then.

"You're a good lad, Frodo," Bilbo said, and he sighed. Frodo looked at him sharply, wondering at this change of mood. They had been laughing at confounding the S-B's yet again; but now the soft, serious note in his uncle's voice caught Frodo's attention. "I have been selfish, you know, bringing you here and flouting you at them," he nodded toward where Lobelia and Otho gone. "I am afraid that I am going to be leaving you with a handful of anxious relatives and a knot of gnarled intentions to sort out. A part of me did want to flummox them and get even for the grief they caused me when I returned to the Shire after my Adventure, but don't you believe that was the only reason, Frodo. Don't you heed their spiteful words!"

Frodo regarded Bilbo closely. Rarely had he seen his uncle like this; quiet, intense, and serious. He did not wish to interrupt, but when Bilbo did not go on, he said carefully, "I do not, sir. You have shown me every kindness and taught me so many things. I know that they will not understand, but I don't care; I can handle them."

Bilbo looked at Frodo in surprise, a smile spreading on his face. "Yes, you'll be all right! I do not doubt it at all! That's my boy!" he clapped Frodo on the back, laughing again. "I should not call you 'boy' now! You are of age today, and no boy no more!"

Frodo returned Bilbo's smile. "You may always call me 'boy', uncle. I will never be so grown-up that I could tire of that!"

Bilbo cleared his throat hastily, covering the sound by sipping his ale. "Hurumph! Don't make your old uncle weepy! Let's get back to the party. Supper shall be served soon, and after that comes you-know-what!" Bilbo winked and tapped the side of his nose. "I've been waiting to do this for a long time, my lad. It is going to be a grand joke!"

Frodo laughed and opened his mouth to agree with Bilbo, but at that moment, there was a blinding flash of light and a deafening roar that split the air!

⌂

Things were happening quickly behind the tent in which Bilbo and Frodo had been talking quietly. Too quietly for Meriadoc to hear, to his consternation. He pressed his ear against the thick canvas, but the roar of the crowd and the booming cracks of the fireworks drowned out every word, except the last phrase that Bilbo had uttered. Merry stiffened and caught his breath. What would happen after supper? Was this... it?

He turned to speak to Pippin, and then he saw what was happening, and what was about to happen. There was a red-gold dragon with a tail of sparks right behind them! He had no time to do more than draw Pippin back and cover his eyes when the dragon began to scream in a piercing whistle and took off into the air in a cloud of smoke and fire!

It rose into the air with a scream such as none of the party guests had ever heard before. Small but terribly life-like, it spread its glowing red wings and flew low over the heads of the astonished hobbits three times, uttering its roaring cries. Then it soared over Bywater and turned a summersault, bursting into a great fireball with a final deafening bang.

The hobbits had fallen to the ground in fear and shock; even Bilbo and Frodo were exceedingly startled. Gandalf was glowering, he stalked toward the tent from where the firework had arose; he had been saving that one for last. There began a muttering in the crowd, and a few children began to cry.

Bilbo stood up and announced in a clear, strong voice, "That is the signal for supper!" As if these words had magic powers, the pain and humiliation of the hobbits was cured. Laughter and applause broke out, and tables were quickly assembled and covered with steaming dishes of food.

Bilbo kept Frodo close to him until they were in the pavilion where the special family supper was being taken. He seated his nephew at his right, but remained standing himself until all guests were present. He was humming and smiling, his hand in his waistcoat pocket fiddling with something as he waited for everyone to settle down.

⌂

Gandalf found Merry and Pippin sitting behind the tent, dusted with soot and only slightly singed.

"Well," he said, frowning at them. "Well. Well, well! I hope we have learned our lesson about playing with fire?"

"We didn--!" Pippin began to protest, but Merry clapped a hand over his mouth quickly.

"We're sorry, Mr. Gandalf!" Merry said. "We didn't know... we were j-just experimenting! I-I thought it was just a sparkler!"

Gandalf looked at Merry so closely that Merry gulped. He obviously did not believe him. Merry said no more, but released Pippin. They both stared hard at the ground in front of their feet, awaiting their punishment.

With the tail of his eye, Gandalf spotted two powder-burned wood sprites staggering back toward Bag End's garden. With a tremendous effort, he managed not to laugh out loud.

"I see. Get yourselves cleaned up and get some supper in you. You're expected at the family table?" Both hobbit-lads nodded. "But to keep you out of further mischief, I think that you shall both assist Frerín tonight with cleaning up. You wash," he pointed to Pippin, then to Merry, "and you dry."

"Yes, sir," they intoned together, then turned and scurried away.

When they were well away from the wizard, Pippin whispered to his cousin, "Why did you tell him it was us that took the firework?"

"We couldn't very well tell him what we were really doing behind that tent, now could we? What _did_ happen? Did you take that rocket from Gandalf's cart?"

"No! I had only a sparkler, and I stuck it in the ground so I could eat. I guess it exploded, but where that dragon came from, I've no idea." Pippin glanced around, as if afraid that another fiery beast would come swooping down on his head.

They found a cloth and some water and as they quickly washed most of the black soot from their faces and clothes, Merry told Pippin what he had overheard Bilbo say. Both young hobbits were extremely anxious as they hurried to take their places before supper began.

Merry saw Samwise sitting with his Gaffer toward the back of the pavilion. They weren't related to Bilbo and Frodo, but were present as special guests for dinner. Sam shot Merry a strange look, but Merry couldn't stop to tell him what he'd heard, not with the Gaffer sitting right there. Merry quickly joined his mother and father, muttering an apology to Esmeralda as she exclaimed at the state of his clothes and hair, still somewhat smudged with soot.

Pippin sat next to his youngest sister, who glared at him but said nothing. He would try to stay out of his parent's sight for the rest of the night. He would have taken his plate and hidden, but then he would miss the after-dinner speech that Bilbo would be giving and a slice of that huge cake with all the candles burning. It wouldn't do to miss the food or the speech, not if he and Merry were going to be washing dishes all night!

⌂

Still smoldering, Firtle and Stint staggered back to their garden, stopping at the well to douse their singed twigs and bark-like skin.

Firtle looked down at himself in dismay. "Lost all mah leaves Ah have! Looking like a wilted stalk Ah do! Oh, mah burnt'd fingers!" he soaked his hands in the cool water.

Stint was very upset to see his friend hurt. "I'm sorry, Firtle! I don't know what got into me! It must have been the drink... I never thought we'd be in danger!" He wished he could get some willow-water to ease Firtle's pain, like what they could draw from the Grove. This healing water kept all the trees and plants, and the wood sprites, wights and spirits green and healthy, but since the two wood sprites had left, they had no access to this beneficial magic. Here, all Stint could do to ease the pain was to fetch more water from the well and pour it carefully over Firtle's blackened skin.

Big tears formed in Stint's eyes, and he sat down on the ground in despair. Firtle did not have the heart to see his friend like this. He waddled over and sat down next to Stint.

"Be not weepy, Stint. Ah am but scorched and scattered! Quickly Ah shall heal, you shall heal. But promises Ah want to hear, Stint! No more sparks and smoke! If you wan' to play with fire, play with fireflies only!"

Stint offered his friend a smile. He licked his fingers and reached out to snuff a burning twig on his friend's head. "Agreed, Firtle. And about the drink... I promise not to swill so much at once! It makes my sap run thick, it does!"

"Say no more!" Firtle nodded toward the field, still glowing with lanterns and echoing with laughter and music. "A party this is! Such things happen at parties, so enjoying the sights and sounds from here we should, and wait here patient for our young master to return home."

**III**

**Vanishing**

Samwise was sitting next to his father and his sister Marigold, listening to Mr. Bilbo's after-supper speech. He was really only half-listening; he could just make out where Rosie and her family were sitting, way out in the field with the other guests. He could see the lantern-light gleaming off of her fair hair and the shining green ribbon she had tied it back with tonight...

The three toots that Bilbo blew from the toy horn got his attention at last, and so he witnessed the end of the speech and the startling finale.

_'I shall not keep you long,' _Bilbo cried. Samwise thought that the enthusiasm of the cheers that followed this statement to be a trifle rude, but he said nothing. It wasn't his place to criticize his betters, and the Gaffer'd have a rap on the head for him if he scowled or muttered ought. _'I have called you all together for a Purpose.' _Sam noticed that both Merry and Pippin seemed to sit forward and perk up their ears.

_'Indeed, for Three Purposes! First of all, to tell you that I am immensely fond of you all, and that eleventy-one years is too short a time to live among such excellent and admirable hobbits.'_

There was thunderous applause, and everyone raised their mugs to salute Bilbo and themselves. In the span of time when voices were quiet, drinking deep from their mugs of ale or goblets of wine, Bilbo added, _'I don't know half of you half as well as I should like: and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.'_ The Gaffer, sitting on Sam's left, choked in his mug, and Sam patted him firmly on the back. What did Mr. Bilbo mean, Sam wondered, and why did the Gaffer think it was so funny? Before he could ask, Bilbo began to talk again, so Sam had to let it go for now.

_'Secondly, to celebrate my birthday. I should say: OUR birthday! For it is, of course, also the birthday of my heir and nephew, Frodo. He comes of age and into his inheritance today.' _Bilbo gestured toward where Frodo was seated, and his nephew stood and bowed politely to the perfunctory clapping of his elders. Merry, Pippin, Fredegar, and some more of the other younger hobbits waved their mugs and shouted, "Frodo! Frodo! Jolly old Frodo!" Frodo smiled at them. He carefully did not look toward where the Sackville-Bagginses were seated; he knew Bilbo's last remark had been aimed at them, and he didn't need to see them to know that they were scowling and muttering.

Samwise would have shouted cheers for Frodo, too, but the Gaffer wouldn't have stood for it. Instead he applauded as loudly as he dared, giving his sister May a teasing nudge with his toe as she blushed when Frodo bowed. He knew she was sweet on him, but would never have said anything aloud that would embarrass her in front of the others. She kicked him back, not too softly, so that Sam missed Bilbo's next words. Whatever he said must not have been very funny, because nobody was laughing. Sam decided he'd have to ask Merry for a re-accounting after the feast.

Bilbo had paused, as if deep in thought, while the hobbits waited in obstinate silence. Many were holding their breath with barely concealed looks of dismay, fearing he would begin spouting absurd poetry or telling ridiculous tales. They were holding their glasses firmly, hoping that he would stop talking and let them get on with a drink to his health.

Bilbo looked up, a strange smile playing on his face, illuminated by the lanterns hanging from the Party Tree. He had one of his hands in his waistcoat pocket. He removed his hand and placed both behind his back, as if to begin reciting. But instead of a poem or song, he said this:

_'Thirdly and finally, I wish to make an_ ANNOUNCEMENT.' He spoke the last word loudly and clearly, so that everyone sat up, except for those who had been overcome by food and drink already. _'I regret to announce that-- though, as I said, eleventy-one years is far too short a time to spend among you-- this is the END. I am going. I am leaving NOW.'_

Bilbo glanced toward Frodo, and his eyes were sparkling with a merry light. "Goodbye," he said gently. Then he stepped down from the barrel and vanished. He was never seen by any hobbit in Hobbiton again.

Samwise was on his feet before he knew it. Bilbo had disappeared before the eyes of one hundred and forty-four hobbits in a blinding flash of light! Across the tables, Sam looked for his friends. Merry appeared thunderstruck; he was still staring at the place Bilbo had been standing. Pippin had his hands over his face. Sam felt a bit like crying, also, except that he couldn't. He looked wildly around, but Bilbo wasn't anywhere to be seen.

All the hobbits were talking and exclaiming loudly, wondering where he'd gone off to and why, and commenting on what a poor joke it had all been. More food was required to settle their upset and annoyance. But Sam wasn't hungry anymore. He wondered how anyone could eat at a time like this! He checked under the tables, then ran out to the gate to look up and down the road. Bilbo wasn't there. He really was gone. Sam leaned heavily on the gate, depression settling on him like a fog.

Mr. and Mrs. Sackville-Baggins came stamping out of the pavilion, clearly insulted and in a fine wrath. Samwise leapt aside and held open the gate for them, touching his forelock respectfully. They ignored him, climbing into their carriage while muttering angrily. Otho whipped the pony into a trot, showering Sam with grit. Sam closed the gate and turned to look back at the lighted pavilion. All his desire for celebrating had been bled out of him.

He saw Frodo, then, still sitting quietly at the head table. Frodo was smiling, as if he had just been told a marvelous joke, though he wasn't listening to any of the hobbits who were chattering at him, demanding to know where Bilbo had gone. Sam heard Frodo call for more wine to be served, then saw him stand up, lifting his glass in a solitary salute. He drained it and set the goblet down gently, then slipped out of the pavilion, leaving the chaos of the party behind.

Sam felt panic fluttering inside his chest. Where was Master Frodo going? And where was Gandalf? There had been no sign of the Wizard since the speech had ended. He had disappeared the same moment as Bilbo, in that eye-blistering flash of light.

Sam turned to hurry toward Bag End, but he heard his named called behind him. The Gaffer waved imperiously for him to come to his side. Sam obeyed, but part of him did not want to. What would he do, he wondered, if Mr. Frodo disappeared, too? What would then become of Sam?

⌂

Frodo disappeared from the pavilion in a more ordinary way than his uncle. He sought the relative darkness beneath the further side of the great Tree, away from the outraged chattering of his relatives, and the swift tide of alarm and amusement as the news spread to the furthest corner of the Party Field. The tale was going out; Mad Bilbo had gone off again!

Frodo looked up the Hill, suppressing a desire to hurry to the door and throw it open, to catch Bilbo before he left, for one last goodbye, or even for a plea to delay setting out. 'I never asked Bilbo not to go,' Frodo thought guiltily. 'Maybe if I had said something...'

But Frodo knew in his heart that it would not have changed things, except to make this parting more bitter. A gentle voice in Frodo's head whispered to him: _This is his choice. It is what he wants to do._ A calming, reasonable voice it was_. Just let him go._ Frodo sighed and acquiesced to that soft suggestion, happier to accept this advice than to continue to mourn.

Frodo smelled the acrid odor of an over-burnt pipe, just before he heard another voice, this one less soft and reasonable than the one inside his head: "Congratulations, Baggins."

Frodo turned, mildly alarmed to find Lotho Sackville-Baggins leaning against the dark lee of the Tree. Eclipsed by the wide trunk from the bright lights of the Party, Frodo had not seen him at all until he spoke out; Frodo had assumed he had departed at the same time as his parents, in the wake of Bilbo's prank.

"I said, 'Congratulations, Baggins'. This is a big day for you, cousin." Lotho knocked the char from his pipe against the bark of the tree, sending a careless spark onto the grass. He ignored it as it smouldered, watching Frodo with an insolent smile on his face.

Frodo said nothing, merely returning Lotho's arrogant stare with his own measuring and patient regard; it was plain to him that Lotho was not in the least earnest in his felicitations, so he would not justify such rhetoric with a response. He waited, letting his eyes adjust to the shadows and to see where Lotho was going with his talk.

If Lotho was annoyed that Frodo did not answer, he did not show it in his demeanor. He propelled himself off of the tree by leaning back sharply. He sauntered a few steps closer to Frodo, so that his soft comments could not be overheard. "You see, I don't share my father's opinion of you at all, Baggins. You should be given fair honours, for doing what he hasn't been able to do for the past forty-three years."

Frodo relented from his silence. "What is it, exactly, that I have accomplished that your father has not?" he asked, his voice even and dry.

Lotho's grin widened triumphantly. "Why, getting rid of mad old Baggins, of course! Dad's been at him to give up Bag End—even offered a fair price if he'd sell it –and couldn't budge him at all. But you got him out of that grand hole _and_ he signed over all his money and goods... all to _you_. How did you manage him?"

Frodo stared at him, appalled that anyone could believe that he had manipulated Bilbo in any way. "You are the one who is mad, Lotho. Take your absurd implications and go home! Your mother will be missing you," he added, hoping to incite Lotho to leave.

Lotho grimaced, not unlike the way Bilbo had often done at the mention of Lobelia's name. "Don't talk about my mother, Baggins. I'll see her in Bag End before all this is done, mark my words!"

"It may be that what you say will be so, Lotho," responded Frodo tightly, "but it will be a far day indeed, and what could happen between now and then cannot be easily guessed."

Lotho walked past Frodo, giving him the barest brush of shoulder-to-shoulder. "Be seeing you, Baggins."

Frodo stared after him, his face flushed with anger in the dark. He took several deep breaths, then berated himself for losing his temper. He knew Bilbo would have chided him if he had been here to see it. "You're a hobbit-grown, Frodo. It's time to act like an adult, even if you don't feel like one!" he muttered aloud.

Carefully, he extinguished the burning leaves at the foot of the Tree, then he turned and looked up the Hill again. Several dark figures were passing out of the front door, pausing for a moment in the circular spill of light. Then they moved away toward the garden and disappeared into the darkness like wind in the grasses.

Frodo bent his head and let his whispered goodbye fall with the tears he had been unable to shed before.


	9. Chapter 9 Unpleasant Business

**Chapter 9  
**_In four parts_

**I**

**Best Bedroom  
**  
Frodo lay awake. The softness of the feather pillow under his head did not lull him, neither the shifting patterns on the wall of the room, of moon and star light dancing through the leaves of the ivy that grew up around the window. He was not tired, though he had a long day and a full one, and he had stayed up very late trying to question Gandalf after Bilbo had gone.

The smial seemed unnaturally quiet; empty and hollow. The Dwarves were absent; some had departed in the night, the others were billeted in the back garden. Frodo felt as if he were listening with his whole body, straining for the sound of a single snore or the soft pattering of bare feet in the kitchen. _Wouldn't it be nice,_ he thought, _if it all had been a dream? If the day I had just spent-- the day that has left my feet sore from dancing and my stomach cramped from laughter, and my head spinning with wine and grief-- if it had all been something imagined while listening to a fireside tale?_

Frodo watched as the patches of moonlight waned before the rising sun. He lay still until he heard the soft bang of the back door closing, and the clatter of the kettle on the kitchen hook. Someone, probably Samwise, had come to help get the day started. Frodo laid an arm over his face, to shut out the morning light and ease the ache in his eyes. Wishing could not undo the day past, nor delay the coming of the next.

He sat up with a sigh, shifting his legs over the side of the huge bed and looking around the room. The Best Bedroom, this was called. It had been Bilbo's room. This past night had been the first night Frodo had ever spent in it alone. Once, maybe twice before, when Frodo had come visiting with his parents long ago, he had crept out of their room and climbed onto the big bed with his uncle Bilbo. Bilbo had not sent him away, but had made a space beside him for the lad and told him tales until he fell asleep. He had woke the next morning to find Bilbo asleep in his big comfortable chair, wrapped in a quilt.

The chair was still here in the room, the old quilt folded and draped over the arm. Everything else that had been Bilbo's had been removed yesterday, and all Frodo's things were arranged in their places. Bilbo had known that Frodo would never have moved his things in on his own, but would have left it all as it had been, just as if Bilbo would someday be back to take up his pipe and sit in his chair. Therefore, while Frodo was busy at the party, Bilbo had instructed the Dwarves to move Frodo's things into the Best Bedroom, leaving only the grand bed and the chair.

Frodo rose and pulled on his dressing gown. The envelope that Bilbo had left for him, that he had taken down from the mantelpiece last night, lay on the table next to the bed, still unopened. Frodo decided he needed a cup of tea before he could read what his uncle had written.

He turned to leave the room, but hesitated. He came back to the bedside table, staring at the envelope. He picked it up and placed it in the pocket of his robe.

In the kitchen, Frodo found Gran busily preparing breakfast. There was only one place set at the table. Frodo felt his stomach twist; he had no appetite. But he forced himself to sit and eat the breakfast that the Dwarf had prepared for him. He knew he would need his strength today.

Frodo finished eating, but Gran had not finished cooking. Indeed, he was laying in a sizable meal, as if he were cooking for a party again. Then Frodo remembered... he would be receiving guests today; some invited and many more that were not. Bilbo's disappearance would bring most of them back in flocks. Frodo covered his eyes with his hands and groaned. Gran shot him an understanding grin, refilling his coffee cup.

Last night, Frodo had returned to the party to bid the guests goodnight, after his brief talk with Gandalf in the darkened and empty Bag End. It had been well after mid-night before the last of the carriages rolled away, containing hobbits that were still muttering with dissatisfaction. It was rather later before all the guests were cleared out; Sam and his gaffer had organized a small army of hobbits with barrows to wheel home those who had inadvertently been left behind. By the time it was all over, Frodo felt like he would have liked to be wheeled home, too. But he couldn't go yet. There was one last problem to solve... well, two problems, really.

Merry and Pippin were insisting to their parents that they needed to stay with Frodo that night. Frodo would not have minded, had indeed actually been hoping for them to stay, but Eglantine was beside herself with distress at the state of Pippin's good party clothes, and she was demanding that he come along with her so that they could get an early start back to Tuckbourogh in the morning. Pippin was begging her to let him stay with Frodo and Merry.

Frodo touched Paladin's sleeve and took him aside for a moment. "I know Aunt Eglantine is upset, but do you think that she might be persuaded to consider coming up to Bag End for second breakfast? Bilbo left some instructions for me, and I could use your wisdom and patience."

Paladin nodded, laying a firm hand on Frodo's shoulder. "Leave her to me, lad. We'd best humour her for now, though." Paladin turned toward his son and wife, who were still arguing tearfully. "Come, Peregrin. Obey your mother. Frodo will still be here tomorrow..."

Frodo hastened to reinforce Paladin's words. "Go on, Pip! Your father is right; I'll be just fine alone for one night!" Frodo looked around for Merry, who had always been most able to handle Pippin when he was upset. Merry was nearby, explaining to Saradoc and Esmerelda that he need to stay and help Frodo. Frodo walked over and gave his aunt a short bow. "Aunt Esme, I could use Merry's help tonight, if you could spare him. I want him to go along with Pippin." Frodo cut Merry off before he could utter his protest. "Please, Merry. He needs you tonight more than I do," Frodo whispered.

Merry consented, clapping Frodo on the back. He kissed his mother on the cheek and nodded to Saradoc, then walked over and scooped Pippin up in his arms. "Come on, Pippin!" his voice was rough, but he made it sound cheerful, "let's get out of here before they really do make us wash the dishes!"

Frodo watched all of them leave until he was the last hobbit in the vacant field. The Dwarves had retired to their tents and Frodo was left to walk up the Hill to his home.

His home. It still didn't sound right to him. Bilbo had lived here all his life, but for one adventurous year, and it was still Bilbo's, in Frodo's thinking. He stood before the entrance for a long minute, just staring into the darkened recesses of the hole, before he finally stepped inside and closed the door.

Gandalf had already gone to bed; the hole was utterly quiet. Frodo checked to make sure the hearths were safely banked, but it was mostly an excuse to look through all the rooms to make sure someone had not remained behind, maybe reconsidered and returned...

On the mantelpiece in the parlour lay the envelope that Bilbo had left for him. Frodo had set it back there, not wanting to lose it in the party field, a part of him not wanting to find it when he returned. He took it down again, feeling the weight of the papers folded inside and the odd dimple in the corner where the ring had settled. With a sigh, he carried it toward his room, thinking that he had best wait until he was in the privacy before he opened the packet. There would probably be a note inside.

Frodo opened the door to his room, and halted abruptly. A single lamp had been left burning on a stool in the center of the room; it was otherwise utterly empty. All his things were gone, even his bed. The floor was swept clean and the fireplace was empty. A small key lay on the table next to the lamp.

Frodo picked up the key. He knew to which room it went and why it was here. Picking it up, he held the key in his palm, slowly closing his fingers over it, smiling gently. He turned from the empty room and walked down the hall to stand before another door. He pushed it open with his fingers.

The oiled hinges did not creak, the room was lit with lamps and there was a warm fire laid beyond the grate. Behind the door, Frodo hung the key on the little golden hook, and laid the envelope from Bilbo on the nightstand. Best to wait for light of day to read it, he told himself. He sat down on the bed with a sigh. The feather mattress cradled him softly.

**II**

**Inviting Trouble**

Even as soft as that big feather mattress and pillow had been, it had provided no rest for Frodo. He sat now at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, trying to wrest his foggy mind out of the past and concentrate on what was needed to get through the day. Gran's strong coffee helped, and after the second cupful he began to think clearly and to realize that Bilbo's party was not yet over; yesterday was for their Birthing day and as ribyadan they had distributed gifts to their guests, as was the custom of hobbits in the Shire; today Bilbo would distribute—even in his absence—gifts to friends and relations by the execution of his Will.

Since a Hobbit's Will is usually only dealt when that hobbit is deceased, this was a most unusual occurrence. But unusual was usual for Bilbo Baggins, and he had sent out with the party invitations special notes to certain persons to call at Bag End on September twenty-third, to receive from him a parting gift.

Bilbo had disappeared—not died—and yet most of the hobbits that began to trickle up the Hill after second breakfast were dressed in mourning gear, looking morose and speaking of Mr. Baggins in the past tense. Frodo gently but firmly reminded those who offered their condolences to him that his uncle was not dead. He welcomed each caller who came up the Hill personally, meeting them on the front step. If they were among those specially invited, he let them inside, showing them into the hall. There, piled floor to ceiling, were presents and pieces of furniture, knick-knack and mathoms galore, all labeled with neat little tags, some of them conveying a message or personal joke.

Even with Paladin's assistance, and with Pippin and Merry working as his extra hands and feet, Frodo was soon overwhelmed, for the hobbits who arrived did not always take their gifts and go, but remained and asked, over and over: where was Bilbo? What had happened that he disappeared? When would he return? Most of them were polite about it, merely bewildered and unsettled about the strangeness of it all. Some were more insistent, and these Frodo handled with Paladin's temperate help. As Thain, his authority was recognized throughout the Shire. What some wouldn't hear from Frodo 'that young whipper-snapper from Buckland', they would accept from Paladin.

And so the morning went, not as smoothly as Frodo could have wished, but certainly better than he had expected. After luncheon, Paladin and Pippin bid Frodo farewell; Eglantine was eager to return to Tuckborough, 'where hobbits did not disappear into the thin air'. Pippin's face was showing much rebelliousness, for he was keen to stay and keep an eye on Frodo; the whole incident seemed to have shaken his belief that Frodo would never leave the Shire. He begged his father to let him stay until Paladin agreed that he could return after a week, when things had cooled down a bit more. Frodo reinforced this by extending a return invitation to Pippin as he bid the Tooks goodbye. Merry whispered his own promise into his cousin's ear; that he would stay with Frodo the entire time and be there when Pip returned. Only then did Pippin climb into the carriage with his parents.

Frodo was to learn his troubles had not yet begun.

He was sitting in the parlour about to take a cup of tea when Merry called him to the front door. The urgency in his cousin's voice made Frodo set his cup down un-tasted, hastening to his cousin's aid. He opened the door and found a great crowd of hobbits standing there, backed up to the gate and down the lane, some pushing hand-carts or hauling wheel-barrows. They were chattering and clamouring and shouting at one another.

"Frodo! What's this all about?" asked Merry, clearly alarmed.

Frodo shook his head; he was just as confused as Merry. He stepped out of the door and held up his hands for silence. "What is the meaning of this?" he said loudly.

"Why, we 'erd that all to be givin 'way!" declared one hobbit, near the front of the column. "I come t'get m' fair share! This's much better than 'n auction-- we was tol' all was free for the takin'!"

"My dear hobbits!" Frodo exclaimed, and he stood on the top step and spoke as loud as he could. "There has been a mistake! There is no sale, no auction, and nothing to be given away! Please, return home!"

A hobbit Frodo did not recognize stepped forward, crossing his thick arms stubbornly. He said, "There seems to be a lot of comings and goings here this morning, _Mister_ Baggins..." the hobbit said Frodo's name as if there was some doubt as to his entitlement of the honour. "... there must be something going on up here! There's been traffic up and down the Hill and I think that is a mite odd, and I don't mind saying so!"

"Is there something odd about receiving relatives on a Friday morning, sir?" Frodo said, forcing himself to speak with a touch of levity. "All these who have visited today—which I will agree with you has been all-together too many!" there was a scattering of chuckles from the gathered hobbits listening, "—have all been members of my family and close friends, come by invitation. I do not know your name, good sir, and if you have business on the Hill, I beg you to return tomorrow. I am quite busy today, as you can see!"

There was still some muttering and grumbling from disappointed hobbits, but most turned away after Frodo's speech. Frodo went back inside and closed the door. It was knocked on almost instantly. He leaned against it and sighed.

Merry clasped his shoulder. "Frodo, go and have your tea! I shall handle this! You've been running off your feet all day, and you need a rest."

Frodo sighed, massaging his aching eyes with his fingertips. "Very well. Thank you, Merry! I'll take my cup in the study. I have some papers I have been meaning to read over. Tell anyone who asks to see me that I am indisposed, please."

Outside, the road up the Hill was a mess of arguing hobbitry. There was so many packed in the lane that those in the front could not find their way out, and those in the rear who had not heard Frodo's speech were not leaving, still hoping to take home a treasure from the Hill.

And right in the middle of all the confusion, the Sackville-Bagginses arrived.

**  
III**

**Unwanted Heirlooms**

Frodo closed the door of his study, resisting the urge to lock it firmly. Even the stout oak panel did not feel sufficient to keep everything out. And it would do no good, as that which Frodo most wished to avoid was not outside but lying on his desk.

The envelope Bilbo had left for him was thick and heavy, sealed with a knot of red wax. Using the thin sharp knife that he kept on his desk for this purpose, he slit the packet open, careful not to cut the documents inside. Bilbo's Will, important documents concerning Frodo's inheritance, and a small envelope were inside. When Frodo unfolded these papers, a golden ring fell out of the packet and dropped with a clatter to the desktop.

It rolled on its edge, gleaming in the sunlight that leaked in through the window, making a long circular path over the clean desk to return and wobble to a halt, directly in front of Frodo. The sound of it was a curiously musical ringing that seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet little study.

Frodo stared at it, hardly able to believe that his uncle would have left such a useful and valuable treasure behind. He reached toward it, to take it into his hand, but hesitated at the last moment. It was very beautiful, plain and yet shapely, and its colour was a perfect mellow gold. There were no blemishes that he could see, no wearing of time or stain of use. Bilbo had left it for him. He had also left a letter. Frodo wondered what it said, and why he had waited so long to look at it.

Leaving the ring where it lay, Frodo spread the papers on his desk, examining them. The Will was indeed here; several thick pages of creamy paper neatly written in Bilbo's hand. Though he had seen it before (Bilbo had insisted that Frodo read it carefully after he had drafted it) Frodo perused it again, noticing that there were now seven signatures on the last page, witnesses that Bilbo had engaged to make the document legal and binding. The ink used for the witnesses was red, as required by custom. Frodo smiled when he noticed that; many hobbits had scoffed at Bilbo's adventurousness and said that he was no proper hobbit, but he knew his history and customs better than most, and furthermore, he had been careful to instruct his heir in these practices and policies.

The small envelope contained a letter from Bilbo, as Frodo had guessed it might. He unfolded it slowly, sighing as he recognized more of Bilbo's handwriting. He set the note down for a moment, closing his eyes against the burning sensation of tears. Then he picked it up and began to read.

_Dearest Frodo,_

_How much easier this all had been, when long ago on my first Adventure I ran out of my hole with nothing in hand. There had been no goodbyes to speak, no extensive preparations to make. Thorin had taken care of all those things, and I was blinded by excitement and befuddled by Gandalf's clever machinations. Oh, yes, it was easy that day in April, to leave the Shire behind._

I am excited by this Adventure also, though the preparations seem to have been years in the arranging (some were indeed begun years ago!) but it is not so easy to step outside and take the road. It is not that I shall regret leaving the Shire, nor the comforts of Bag End of which I am fond; It is that I shall miss you, my lad. Your eagerness to learn, your intelligent questions, your astute observations—I will be hard-pressed to find a companion who comes remotely close to replacing you, and I shan't bother looking for one! You are the son I could have wished for, more dear to me that if you were indeed my own flesh. I know you will do well, and that is why I can leave now. My heart is singing to be on the Road again.

I will leave you with a last few words of advice, Frodo-lad. Firstly, be aware that there will be some confusion until things settle down; I arranged that intentionally. The other hobbits will try to smooth things over and get everything back to normal as quickly as possible, so those who would stir things up will meet quite a bit of resistance. You can handle those who will try to make trouble, I am sure I need not even name them. Remember what I taught you, and exercise patience.

Secondly, try not to make the same mistakes I made. You have many friends, here in Hobbiton, in Buckland, in Tuckbourogh, all through the Shire. Cultivate them, and try not to be so much alone. And if a troupe of Dwarves show up with a contract, carefully read it BEFORE agreeing to do anything! Ha ha!

Thirdly, you will notice that I have left an heirloom in your keeping, and I advise you to uphold our practice of secrecy. While I owned it, I told no one of it except my Dwarven travel companions and Gandalf, and you. Gandalf once said that such things were dangerous to mortals, but of this one only good has come to me; though I feel great relief in imparting it to you, I also feel some reluctance. I have promised to do this, so I will leave it with you. I suggest that you keep it on a chain or in a safe box, as it has a most particular habit of slipping out of a pocket at odd times. I found that I feel much more comfortable knowing where it is at all times.

I could make a book of words of advice, but in truth, I think that you already know all that I would say, as you are a sensible and intelligent hobbit. Enjoy all that you have, my dear Frodo, and keep your friends close to you, and don't forget the stories that we shared. Wherever I wind up in the Great World, be assured that I will be thinking about you and hoping for your happiness.

I do so hate to say goodbye, so I will merely say farewell. Farewell, Frodo Baggins, Master of the Hill!

Very sincerely yours,  
_Bilbo Baggins, Esquire and Adventurer  
Formerly of Hobbiton_

A soft knock on the door of his study brought Frodo's attention up from his Uncle's letter.

⌂

Merry sighed as the door quaked; someone was pounding on it, completely disregarding the bell that hung in plain view. This had been a long day, and there was no sign of it coming to an ending soon. He took a deep breath, determined to maintain his temper, and opened the door.

He regretted it instantly.

"It is about time! We've been waiting on the step for you to open the door!" Otho pushed into the smial without waiting for Merry to invite him inside. Lobelia was right beside him, looking around in dismay at the empty hall and parlour, now nearly cleared out of all the packages and parcels Bilbo had addressed to his friends and relatives.

She clutched Otho's arm and hissed, "He has given it all away! He had no right!"

"Hush, Lobelia!" Otho commanded, and his wife bit her lip and scowled at Merry. Otho looked at him and said loudly, "Well? I demand to see Frodo! You'd think the 'Master' of Bag End would be greeting his own visitors, or has he already become so high and mighty that he feels he needn't bother? Where is he in all this mess?"

Merry gritted his teeth, but smiled to cover it and bowed politely. "He is indisposed. He is resting."

"Hiding, you mean!" Lobelia sneered, leaning around her husband's shoulder. "Anyway, we want to see him and we mean to see him. So just go and tell him so!"

Merry's smile was frozen on his face. "If you'll be so kind as to wait here," he said, then he turned and went through the parlour to the kitchen, where Gran and Frerín were still working industriously. "Gran, would you be kind enough to mind the door for me, and to keep an eye on those two. I must tell Frodo that he has an appointment that cannot wait."

The Dwarf looked toward the pair of hobbits lingering in the hall. "Aye, I'll see to 'em. See 'em out the back door and into the midden, if you like!"

Merry laughed. "No, no… well, no! That shouldn't be necessary. Just see to it that they don't take more than they are entitled to. I should be back shortly."

Merry cut through the narrow service hall to the door of Frodo's study. Gently, he knocked on the door. "Frodo?"

"A moment." There was a long silence before Frodo opened the door. He had a piece of paper in his hand that had been folded once into a small packet. "What is it, Merry?"

"I'm sorry, Frodo," Merry said, wishing he did not have to disturb his cousin. "It's the Sackville-Bagginses. They insist on seeing you, but I think I will tell them to come back later. You look tired, and—"

"No, send them in, Merry. I might as well see them now as tomorrow—but wait a moment. Come inside and shut the door."

Merry did so, wondering what it was that his cousin was about. On the desk was a lot of papers; they covered the polished surface so that nothing else was seen. Frodo had turned away and was pacing the study, his hands behind his back and still holding the single sheet of paper.

After a few minutes of watching Frodo pace, Merry asked, "Well?"

"Hmm?" Frodo glanced at him sharply, as if he had forgotten that Merry was there. He chuckled softly, clapping Merry on the shoulder. "Sorry, friend. I was just thinking that there was no need to hurry them in here. I feel a sudden desire to be unaccommodating! Let them wait, eh? I did want to ask you something, Merry. Who do you think is the wealthiest Baggins in the Shire?"

Merry's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Yesterday I would have said Bilbo was the wealthiest, but today-- Frodo, why do you ask?"

Frodo pointed at the papers on the desk. "Because Bilbo left no money to me. There isn't a mention of gold coin or silver anywhere in the Will, nor has he given me ought in secret." Frodo waved away Merry's consternation. "Never mind that! I have money that my parents left me; that is not my worry. I am only curious, and I know that some others will find it hard to believe that Bilbo did not hand me over a hoard of gold."

"But... Bag End is yours!" Merry exclaimed, stunned. Everyone, all his life, had gone on and on about how insanely wealthy Bilbo Baggins was, and how his Hill was stuffed with jewels and dragon-gold and treasures beyond imagining. That is just what it all was, treasure imagined! Merry laughed out loud, then quickly muffled the sound with his hands. "That wily old hobbit! What did he do with it all?"

Frodo sank into his chair, smiling sadly. "Gave it away, mostly. He never really felt it was his, having been taken from robbers and thieves, and the dragon-gold he spent generously through the long years of his life. I am going to miss him, Merry," Frodo added softly. "But I am glad that you are here to help me now. I wanted to take a moment and say so. Thank you for everything you've done, and for being here today."

"This is what friends are for," Merry said. He pushed the lock on the door firmly and turned to the cabinet built into the wall next to the bookshelves. He swung the small doors open, removing a bottle of Brandywine Brandy. He took two small glasses and filled them with the smoky liquid. "If we are going to have to deal with the most unpleasant things today, let us enjoy for a moment the most pleasant things we can! Cheers!" He handed Frodo one glass, and gently tapped his own against the rim.

Frodo drank his down, grateful for the bracing burn of the smooth liquor. "Well, it won't do for me to receive the S-B's with spirits on my breath, so I guess we had better take some tea before you show them in." Frodo took his time pouring two cups. "One lump or two? Cream?" he asked, though he knew perfectly well that Merry took neither. Time was his to spend now.

**IV**

**Bilbo's Will**

As soon as Merry left them, Lobelia began to sort through the remainder of the stack of presents, reading the labels with a growing look of disgust on her face. Otho stalked into the parlour, but backed out quickly when he saw a Dwarf setting up a tea tray on the table. Ignoring Gran's hospitality, he returned to the hall and glowered about at the walls, muttering loudly of his annoyance at being forced to wait.

"Otho! Look..." Lobelia pointed at a large, heavy package. "It has my name on it!"

Otho picked the box up. It was fairly heavy and wrapped in beautiful foiled paper. There was a tag tied to it that bore the following legend:

_For_ LOBELIA SACKVILLE-BAGGINS, _as a_ PRESENT, _to complete her collection. _

Otho tore the wrapping off swiftly, revealing an ornately carved wooden case. He opened it eagerly, but was disappointed to find it was filled with a splendid set of silver spoons. "Spoons? Why would he give us spoons? Mad! I have always said he was mad..." Lobelia tore off the label and crumpled it in her fist, her sallow face nearly scarlet with rage. She did not answer Otho's question, but she knew very well what Bilbo's point was, and she was not pleased. She set about looking at the other packages, tearing off labels and muttering darkly.

A clatter from the next room sent her skittering back to her husband's side. "What was that?"

"There are_ Dwarves_ in the parlour," Otho said, as if they were an infestation of domestic parasites. "What is taking that Bucklander so long? I haven't all day to be standing around waiting." The fact that he had arrived uninvited did not occur to Otho to be a good reason for a delay.

Eventually, Merry returned to the hall and bowed, gesturing toward the hall. "This way, please."

"It's about time! What took so long?" demanded Otho. Merry said nothing but led them to the study, opening the door and bowing again.

Otho pushed past him with Lobelia on his heels. Frodo was sitting behind the desk; but he stood politely as they entered the room. "Thank you, Merry." The young cousins' eyes met across the room, and Merry offered Frodo a grin, then turned and left them alone, leaving the door open.

Frodo was tired, but he smiled as cheerfully as he could manage. "Otho, Lobelia, good afternoon. I know you have been waiting; it has been a rather stressful morning and I wasn't expecting any appointments today. Please, do sit down."

There were two chairs in front of the desk. Frodo pulled out one of the chairs and held it for Lobelia. She looked as if she wanted to refuse his gesture just for spite, but her feet were sore from standing in the hall. She sat down cautiously, as if she expected Frodo to yank the chair out from under her.

Of course, Frodo did no such thing. He seated his cousin comfortably and brought her a cup of tea. Otho waved away such courtesy, pointedly refusing Frodo's hospitality. He was looking intensely at the desk, which was covered with papers, some of them very official-looking documents. He longed to sort through those pages, but that would be a great breech of etiquette, and rude as the Sackville-Bagginses could be, some habits were well and deeply ingrained.

Frodo returned to his desk, standing so that it was between him and his cousins. He did not sit, but stood with one hand on the back of his chair, the other in his pocket. "What can I do for you today?" he said, still as polite as ever.

Otho abruptly decided to try a new tact on his young cousin. Obviously all this inheritance business had quite gone to the youngster's head. _This could be an advantage,_ Otho supposed. He straightened his shoulders and forced a smile.

"That is a handsome china hutch we saw in the parlour, Frodo." Otho was please with how even and earnest his voice sounded. "It's been in the Baggins family for some generations, hasn't it? It would be a pity, I think, to see it gone away in a moment of blind generosity. I would be happy to make room for it in my home, if you need help clearing out some of Bilbo's old things."

Frodo smiled as if Otho's suggestion was interesting. "That is kind of you to offer, sir, but there is no need for you to make such a sacrifice. My uncle told me that his great-grandmother Berylla originally owned that hutch, which her husband joined with his own hands. Of course, that would make them my great-_great_-grandparents," Frodo added, tactfully reminding his cousins that in his keeping, the hutch would be remaining in the Baggins family.

Otho refused to take the hint. "I could offer you something... say, ten silver coins? Twelve?"

Frodo chose to ignore such a ridiculous offer. The hutch, were he of a mind to sell it, was worth many times that amount. Instead, he offered Otho a plate of cookies. "Try one! Dwarven shortbread; they are Frerín's specialty."

Otho took one of the biscuits but did not eat it. "How about those portraits of Bungo and Belladonna? Surely, you don't want such things cluttering up your mantelpiece..."

"No, thank you, Otho." Frodo smile faded, but he voice remained courteous. "I like those paintings where they are; I am quite fond of them. Only the things that Bilbo specifically tagged are to be given away. Everything else stays where it has always been."

Otho lost his composure at Frodo's confident refusals. "Well! This whole affair is very fishy, if you ask me! Dwarves taking over Bag End, that dratted wizard poking around where he isn't wanted, and Bilbo up and disappearing in a flash of smoke! Only one thing is clear to me, and that is that you are doing exceedingly well out of it! I insist on seeing the Will!"

Frodo promptly picked up a stack of papers from the desk. He sorted it quickly and handed a thick sheaf to Otho. "Of course. Here it is. Is there enough light for you to read by, or would you like me to open the window?" Otho all but snatched the papers out of his hands.

Frodo noticed something on his desk, on the spot now cleared of paper. He casually set the letters he still held down on top of it, before Otho or Lobelia could see the glimmer of gold. As his cousins leaned over the documents to read greedily, he discretely swept the ring into his hand and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. It lay as a weight there, strangely comforting and distracting at the same time.

Frodo believed that he knew the things Otho was looking for in the Will; he also knew that the clauses were drawn air-tight, as Bilbo would put it. He remembered the years his uncle had spent composing the document and, in a typical Bilbo fashion, he had joyfully filled it with things he knew would give Otho apoplexy. Otho's reddened face was shifting to a deeper shade of purple as he scanned the lines and flipped the pages. Lobelia read as fast as she could, but clearly she had little understanding of what the papers contained.

Frodo decided that this unpleasant meeting need not be drawn out longer than necessary. He could hear the doorbell ringing again, and Merry's voice drifting up the hall through the open door. He kept his voice light as he said, "You'll find that Bilbo has passed on to me not only his hole, the property thereon and the lands surrounding it, but the fields in North- and Southfarthing that are leased to farmers, and the two wooded areas known as Bindbale and Piney Knoll. There is an added clause that they are to be kept as is: preserved, that is, for the birds and beasts that live there, with no traffic permitted except hiking and camping. No axes, mills, or lumbering will be allowed. Oh, and here," Frodo came round the table and pointed, in case Otho might have missed the bold printing, "you can see that he has extended to me all his projected earning from the leasing, as well as any debts and titles he owned. Luckily, there are no debts to settle, as Bilbo was quite good at keeping such things paid."

"Exceedingly good as spending the family gold, yes," Lobelia muttered.

Frodo turned to her and said in his most reasonable tone, "How many dragons's lairs have the Sackville-Bagginses plundered?" Lobelia scowled but said nothing, her jaw working as if chewing on a retort.

Otho looked at Frodo sharply, his ears catching what Frodo had said earlier. "Debts and_ titles_? What do you mean by 'titles'; the ownership papers of all this land?"

"No, sir. Those are covered in the previous clause. What is meant by titles in that line is the honourific title of Master of the Hill, which Bilbo held since the passing of his father. He has passed it on to me, though I doubt that I can be as efficient in the manner of family government as Bilbo was." Frodo's modesty was genuine, but he was enjoying (maybe a little too much) rubbing Otho's nose it. "It is, however, what I have been trained to do and what I will do, until such a time as the family decides to reappoint the title. It is, as I understand the custom, something that the elders of the entire family must agree upon. And I don't know about the Sackville-Baggins clan, but trying to get all the Bagginses to agree on any one thing is hard! Are you sure you don't care for any tea?" Frodo stirred his own cup and gently tapped the spoon on the rim before setting it on the saucer, enjoying the tiny musical ringing sound.

Otho stared at the last page of the wretched document, where all these outrageous clauses were made perfectly legal and binding by the presence of seven signatures in official red ink, witnessing Bilbo's intent. He read the names and snorted; it was perfectly correct, and there was nothing Otho could do now to change even a word of it.

Otho stood up angrily, tossing the papers back onto the desk. He took Lobelia's arm and gestured for her to come with him. "Foiled again! And after waiting _sixty_ years!"

They turned to leave, but Otho stopped in the doorway and came back to confront Frodo, who was carefully unsmiling and calm. "I tell you, you haven't heard the last of this, Baggins! I will get what is coming to me... I'll have you know it! Spoons? _Fiddlesticks!_" He snapped his fingers under Frodo's nose and stamped out of the study.

Frodo let out his breath all at once, then sank into his chair. He had been toying with the ring his uncle had left him, turning it around with his fingertips inside his pocket. While Otho had fumed and shouted, he had remained calm and collected; but he had been wondering, what would his cousins have done if he, too, had suddenly vanished before their eyes? He had not put the ring on, but his mind had laughed at the idea. Now he felt a little sick about the whole affair.

He pushed his teacup aside, its contents now cold and unappetizing._ Yes, this 'Master' business is a mixed blessing_, Frodo told himself, _and that was for sure and for certain._


	10. Chapter 10 Badgered

**Chapter 10: Badgered  
**_in four parts_

Hamfast Gamgee looked up from his work as the front door of Bag End opened and Otho Sackville-Baggins stormed out, stamping down the lane as if to take out his frustration on the packed soil under his feet. The Gaffer tutted softly to himself and resumed his work. That rowdy crowd of hobbits that had come by earlier had made a right mess of the lawn, and so now he was gently patting the torn grass clumps back into place with his hoe.

As he worked his way around the yard, he came to the line of shrubs by the fence. Here he paused, laying his hoe aside. "Samwise! Come 'ere, lad," he called, slowly bending down on one knee to examine a withered rosebush.

Sam came trotting at the sound of his name. He had been in the back garden, helping Frerín and Gran pack the last of their things into a waggon. "Yes, Gaffer, sir… here I am."

"Look't this poor rosebush!" Ham raised one limp branch on the abused plant. It looked half-dead; its leaves were mostly gone and some of its twigs appeared to be covered with scorch-marks. "He's gone sickly! Fetch me a forked birch-rod and some string, lad, and some o' that rich fertilizer left over from the garden."

Sam looked close at the plant, letting out a low whistle. "Yes, sir!" he hurried to obey his father.

Ham gently examined the wretched bush, but found no parasites, no signs of nibbling by rabbit or vole, and no other reason for the state of decay. He scratched his head with his soiled fingers and muttered, "Somebody done dumped their pipe-char on the poor thing, or maybe a sparkler fell from the fireworks last night... looks like he's been burned... a bit of extra water wouldn't hurt..." he prodded the soil beneath the roots, wondering if he should build a bit of a trestle around it.

Sam came back promptly with the birch-rod and a ball of twine, and then hurried to the garden for the soil. When he arrived with a full bucket, Ham had managed to straighten the leaning bush by lashing it to the rod. Together they pack the dirt loosely around the roots of the bush.

"We should put a cover over, come nightfall, sir," said Sam, taking his Gaffer's elbow to help him stand; the old hobbit's joints were getting rusty. "There's still a bit of that stout cloth left over from wrapping the fruit-tree saplings that Mr. Baggins ordered."

"Aye, I was jus' thinkin' so," Ham nodded, "but wait 'til after dusk, lad. He'll need all the sunlight he can get, and extra water now and in the mornin'. Have you finished loadin' that waggon? Well, don't forget you've your own chores to finish!"

"Yes, sir!"

He watched his son as Sam walked away, heading back to his interrupted tasks. It'll be sooner than later, he mused as he took up his hoe again; the day that he would have to hand over the handling of the Bag End garden to Samwise. Ham had gardened for Bilbo for ever since Holman Greenhand had retired, some sixty-odd years ago. Keeping the grounds at Bag End was a joy as well as a job to the aging hobbit, but it was harder nowadays to keep up with the work. If he didn't have Sam to help, he'd be fit to be tied.

Hamfast was very proud of his youngest son. Sam had learned everything that he had to teach about gardening. The lad still has some to learn about keeping his place, Ham reflected as he flipped over another divot of grass. Sam spent a lot of time on things that his gaffer believed were beyond his station—time that could be better spent elsewhere. Ham couldn't fault him for wanting to help Mr. Frodo; it was clear how devoted he was to the new Master of the Hill. But then, he had been since they had first met, when Mr. Frodo was still a wild-fry from Buckland. Maybe, now that Mr. Frodo would be assuming more responsibilities and settling down a bit, Sam would shake off this ridiculous streak of curiosity.

Ham scrapped the blade of the hoe along the edge of the flagged stones, then leaned against the pole for a moment and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. He could hear Sam as he took up an ax to cut some wood to refill the depleted bins next to Bag End's kitchen entrance. Ham grinned as he heard his son begin to sing the Chopping Song, a tune that Bilbo had taught him to make the onerous chore more fun.

_Set the log upon the stump  
Bump the handle like a pump  
On the shoulder, in the air  
Bring it down and make it--_

**_thump!_**

The sound of an axe biting wood, the clatter of the split log falling in two. The pieces were chucked into a barrow and Sam set up another chunk, still singing his song under his breath.

Ham listened as he leaned on his hoe, looking out over the lawn and down the hill. I shouldn't be so hard on the lad, Ham told himself. Sam was still a young hobbit, for all he was willing to work, and his coming-of-age was eight years off yet, after all. Ham sighed as he walked back around the yard, checking for more damage, until he was poking along the window boxes. May be time to let those marigolds go, he mused, lifting the shriveling golden and red heads with a finger.

"In due time, even Sam will find his season," murmured Ham, reaching up to try to fluff the drooping ivy-rope that tangled over the window of what used to be Frodo's room. The creeper was dry and had lost a lot of leaves. This autumn really seemed to be taking a toll on the life on the Hill.

Down the Hill, Ham heard Daisy calling tea-time; tearing out the ivy and replanting the window boxes would have to be a job for another day. Ham carried his hoe back behind the smial. "Sam! You heard your sister! We'll tend that illin' rosebush when we get back."

"Go on ahead without me, Gaffer sir," Sam said, balancing another log on the weathered, ax-bitten stump. "I want to finish this up for Mr. Frodo. He may need a hand today, what with all the comings and goings. And I'll not forget to bring a pail of water down and soak those rose-roots. Tell Daisy to save me a biscuit or two for after supper."

Ham grunted and turned away, only half to hide his proud smile. He remembered swinging the ax all through the afternoon when he was Holman's garden-hand, enjoying the feeling of honest sweat down his back and the satisfying sound of the blade biting wood. He walked home, using his hoe like a walking-staff, and when he arrived he told Daisy to be sure to set aside Sam's teacakes.

"He's not coming?" Daisy scowled, her hands propped up on her hips. "I could take him a cup..."

"Leave it, lass," Ham said, settling into his chair. "He'll come home hungry as a lumberer at supper-time, and we'll see him soon enough then. Now, what's that heavenly smell? Do you have something for your poor old father to gnaw on while he takes his tea?"

Daisy giggled, but she sternly pointed toward the bathing room. "Not until you wash your hands, Daddy. And how did you get dirt in your hair?"

⌂

Stint waited until the old halfling was well out of sight, then he writhed himself around so that he could see his friend Firtle. The stocky wood sprite was leaning on a birch-rod like a crutch, wriggling his toes in the rich black loam that the halflings had tucked around his feet.

"Aaa-haaaa!" Firtle sighed with relief.

**II**

**Mistress Lobelia**

It was some time before Frodo came out of his study. Merry thought he looked more tired, maybe even older than he had been before he had gone inside. But as he saw his cousin waiting in the hall with a face full of hesitant questions, Frodo smiled; a bright smile from the heart, a beam as if from the Sun through a curtain of cloud. All the weariness and age dropped away from his face, then… and Merry was sure he must have only imagined seeing it.

There were only a couple of hobbits still lingering in the hall, trying to dicker a trade on whatever goods Bilbo had left them. Frodo politely asked them to leave.

"Please excuse me, if you'd be so kind! I have rather a lot of things to do today, and you're both welcome to come back again sometime, for tea perhaps? I'll let you know when. Good day!" He closed the door after them and turned to speak to Merry, but a strange noise distracted him. It sounded like a woodpecker hammering on a hollow log, but coming from inside the smial, rather than from without.

It was coming from the parlour. Frodo stepped in and stopped abruptly. Lobelia was inside, tapping firmly on the wooden inlaid floor with her umbrella, wherever it showed between the rich rugs spread beneath the furniture.

Merry poked his head in after Frodo, exclaiming in surprise. "You! still here? Frodo, I swear, I saw her leave with her husband right after they came out from speaking with you! She must have got back in through the kitchen door!"

Lobelia turned guiltily at the sound of Merry's voice, but she thrust her chin forward defiantly. "Are guests not welcome to look around in the parlour? It was always so when Bilbo Baggins was master here!"

"Cousin Lobelia," Frodo said, taking the old woman's arm gently. "Guests are always welcome to make themselves at home. However, it is now time for you to go, as the day is quite getting on and... Hullo! What's this?" Frodo caught a glint of something bright inside the folds of the half-opened umbrella that Lobelia had hooked over her arm. Before she could close it back up, Frodo reached in and withdrew a highly polished brass box which contained the official Baggins Family seal. Lobelia tried to snatch it out of his hand, but he drew it back quickly, still holding her elbow loosely in one hand.

"Mrs. Sackville-Baggins! I am astounded!" Frodo displayed the box to Merry. "And how did this happen to come to be inside your umbrella? I could swear it was on my desk this morning!"

"Seems that Bilbo isn't the only burglar in the family, Cousin Frodo!" Merry said, delighting in the stain of shame that was creeping over Lobelia's sallow face.

Lobelia sputtered and spat, "You don't mean to imply that I deliberately took that from your desk!"

"Oh, no, I am sure it just fell in, Lobelia." Frodo's voice was smooth and reasonable, but by the look on his face, no one doubted that he believed none of what he was saying. "Shall we check and see if any other of my possessions have accidentally wound up inside your umbrella?" He held out his hand to her expectantly.

Lobelia clutched her umbrella to herself but after a long moment, during which nobody moved or spoke, she slowly reached into her umbrella and withdrew a small gilt-edged frame and placed it in Frodo's hand.

Frodo passed it to Merry without glancing at it, retaining his grip on Lobelia's arm. He held out his empty hand to her again and waited, watching her face.

"What? There's nothing... oh, very well!" She reached in again and brought out two more items; a large brass key and a jeweled button-hook. She thrust them into Frodo's hand, then lifted her umbrella to show him that there was nothing else within the folds. "That's it! See? Now, let go of me!"

"Oh, I shall let you go, my dear cousin," Frodo assured her, steering her firmly toward the exit, "once I see you safely to the front door. All these treacherous rugs and chairs to navigate, and that long dark hallway-- I must be sure that you can find your way out." He escorted her to the front step, with Merry gleefully holding the door open for them. Frodo then released her arm. "Good day, Lobelia."

She pulled away from him with such force that she nearly spilled herself down the steps. Frodo caught her again, just long enough to steady her. She took a step away then turned back to him, her face dark red with impotent anger, her jaw working as if the taste of her unspoken words disagreed with her. Finally, she managed to stammer out, "You'll live to regret it, young fellow! Why didn't you go too? You don't belong here; you're no Baggins— you— you're a Brandybuck!" She spat out the name as if it were something disgusting in her mouth.

Frodo swung the door shut on her, though it cost him the last ounce of his patience to not slam it. "Did you hear that, Merry?" he said, his voice shaking a little. "That was an insult, if you like!"

Unperturbed, Merry lounged against the doorway that led into the parlour. "It was a compliment," he said with a smile, giving Frodo a bracing clap on his shoulder, "and so, of course, not true!"

**III**

**Three Little Badgers**

Frodo allowed himself to be steered into the parlour and pushed into a chair. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes briefly, but he found it impossible to relax. Despite Merry's encouragement, Lobelia's words stung his ears. He opened his eyes and gazed at the other hobbit as he moved about the room.

Merry took a couple of logs off of the rick next to the hearth and set them on the coals and ashes of the dying fire, prodding them with a poker until the flames began to lick at the seasoned wood. He picked up the kettle and cupped his hand to the side to see if it was still warm. It was so easy for Frodo to forget that Merry was not yet even a tween; Merry had never really behaved like the other hobbits his age, even as a faunt back in Brandyhall when Frodo lived there before Bilbo had adopted him. Always he bore himself with an air of responsibility, even when he was up to mischief. That must be why, Frodo mused, the young Bucklander managed to get away with so many outrageous things.

"Come on, Frodo," Merry said, swinging the cold kettle back toward the growing heat of the fire, "you haven't managed a taste of a single drop of tea I've poured for you today! Samwise will say I am not taking proper care of you. When this water boils I want you to sit and do nothing but drink until your mug is completely empty!"

Frodo chuckled, shedding a little of his grim humour. "I won't say no to a cup, but I'd feel more comfortable while drinking it if we make sure everyone's gone. I thought I heard someone banging around in the kitchen earlier." He gripped the arms of the chair as if he did not want to get up at all, but then he sighed and thrust himself to his feet.

"We've got a while before the kettle whistles," Merry said as he followed Frodo, padding down the hallway. "Maybe Lobelia is trying to dig her way back inside!" he laughed. "I've always suspected that she had some badger in her blood."

"Merry! That was unkind..." Frodo said sternly, though a smile was playing at the edges of his mouth. He placed a finger over his lips and shushed his cousin, pointing toward the doorway of the small pantry that burrowed back into the hill. There was an irregular thumping noise coming from that direction, accompanied by the pattering fall of dirt or gravel.

They heard a muffled exclamation and an urgent "Be quiet!" Frodo paused outside of the door and pressed himself against the wall, motioning Merry to stop and listen. The voice continued, "You'll bring the roof down on our heads or the master on our necks, Biffo, if you're not more careful!"

"Let's get out of here," another voice begged, "We ought not be in here... what if that Dwarf comes back and finds us?" Frodo's eyes widened as he recognized that voice. Fredegar Bolger!

The first voice spoke again, in a wheeling tone, "Come on, Fatty! The Dwarves are all gone, I saw them leave with my own eyes. Help me shift some of this dirt, now. The treasure has to be buried somewhere near here!"

"I don't want no treasure no more," mumbled Fatty. "Mr. Bilbo was always been good to me and my family... and it will be shame on you, Ludo—and on you, too, Biffo—if he were to come back and see the damage we've done! Even if there is treasure here, it's not ours..."

"Bilbo is gone! He disappeared in a puff of smoke… I heard my gran say so! So his treasure is for whoever can find it now," Biffo hissed. More dirt rained down as he spoke further, "and we'll not get caught if you keep your voice down! Now dig!"

"No, I'm out of this!" Fatty said, and Frodo heard a **thunk**, a sound as if the lad had dropped whatever tool he had been using to dig with. "I don't know why I let you two talk me into this..." Soft footsteps grew louder as the young hobbit hurried out of the pantry. As he came out of the doorway, he froze as he saw Frodo and Merry standing there. His eyes went wide, and all the colour drained out of his face; he opened his mouth as if to yell or beg for mercy but no sound came out, not even a squeak.

Frodo covered the lad's open mouth with a gentle hand and gave him a slow wink. He opened the back door slowly, so that it did not creak at all, then reached up and took a copper pot and a ladle from their hooks on the wall, indicating to Merry and Fatty that they should stand well back. Merry placed a friendly but restraining arm around Fatty's shoulders, grinning at him. Fatty stared at him with his eyes still big as saucers, but he did not try to run away.

Wielding the ladle like a drumstick, Frodo beat on the copper pot and said in a loud voice, "Dwarves! The Dwarves are back! The Dwarves are coming!" The pot and ladle made a terrible racket.

Two squeals echoed through the pantry, followed close by two fleeing hobbit-fry, trailing dirt as they scrambled past Frodo and Merry and ran straight out of the backdoor. Frodo and Merry both laughed heartily, and Frodo patted Fatty on the shoulder as he grinned nervously.

"Fredegar Bolger, isn't it? Your family lives in Budgeford, if I'm not mistaken. What are you doing knocking holes in my pantry walls, Fredegar?"

Fredegar's smile slid off his face and he stared down at the floor, too overcome with shame to speak.

Merry gave him an encouraging nudge. "It's alright, Fatty. Frodo doesn't bite."

Fatty glanced up shyly, then back down at his toes. In a very small voice, he said, "They... they dared me to do it, sir. They're my friends... mother and father just moved us here to Hobbiton not long ago... I don't have very many friends..." Fredegar held up his hands that were covered with dirt from the digging. He looked up into Frodo's eyes and said, "I'm sorry, M--Mr. Baggins. I promise I'll fix the damage we did... please, just don't tell me mam?" Large tears began to drip down his round cheeks, and he looked down at the floor again and sniffled.

Frodo gave Merry a look; there was a twist of a smile on his lips and his own eyes were bright. Frodo knew how hard it was for a young hobbit to make friends. Had he not struggled to fit in when he first moved to Hobbiton? He had never managed to shake the label of 'outsider' or 'Bucklander', even though his father's family had lived in Hobbiton for more than two centuries.

"I'll make a deal with you, Fredegar," Frodo said as he hung the copper pot and ladle on their hooks. He bent down with his hands on his knees, bringing himself to eye-level with the younger lad. "If you help me fix the holes that you and your friends made in the pantry wall, I won't tell your mother and father what you have done... but you must do something else for me as well."

Fatty drew a deep breath and held it. "Yes, sir. What must I do?"

Frodo smiled and said, "The next time your friends dare you to do something you know you shouldn't, I want you to dare them not to do it. And I would like for you and your family to come round to Bag End for tea sometime next week. I believe that you and I could become friends, if you think you might want a new one."

"Two new friends, rather," interjected Merry, reaching over to tousle Fatty's hair. Fatty ducked his head away, but he was smiling again.

"Now, Fredegar, if you'll go and wash all that dirt off of your hands, Merry shall get us all a cup of tea. And I will fetch some sweet biscuits to go along with the tea-- the only golden treasure that anyone will find in my pantries, by the way!" Frodo added jovially.

As Frodo turned to enter the larger pantry, Fatty boldly stepped up and seized his hand. "Thank you, Mr. Baggins!"

He shook the little hand solemnly, favouring the lad with another quick wink. "Call me Frodo."

**IV**

**Sancho  
**  
Frodo was laughing quietly to himself as he walked into the cellar-pantry. This was the room where Bilbo had kept dry goods that did not need the cooler temperatures found in the smaller pantry. The room was lined with shelves filled with all manner of things, and in the back was where he kept a collection of wine-bottles and barrels of beer.

Frodo kept a large earthen jar in that room on the top shelf toward the back. It was there because it was full of sweet biscuits, such as were favourites of his younger cousins. When he knew they were coming to visit, he would make sure the jar was full of the thin, crisp cookies, and then he would keep it hidden so that it could be brought out as a special treat.

So, fully expecting to go in and find the cookie-jar, and laughing because of the ridiculousness of the turn of the day, Frodo was taken quite by surprise when, as he reached for the jar, he received a face-full of dirt!

He sputtered, backing up a pace and wiping his eyes. "What on earth...?" he cried.

On the top of the shelf, all the way toward the back by the beer-barrel, Frodo could see two very large dirty feet, standing amid a pile of rocks and loose soil. The feet kicked some of the dirt out of the way; Frodo jumped aside to keep from getting it in the face again. Someone was digging into the wall, up through the Hill as if burrowing toward daylight. And even as much noise as Frodo had made, the person had not heard at all, but was still scratching away and raining down dirt onto the once clean-swept clapboard floor.

Frodo felt his temper take another blow. "Really! This is quite enough for one day," he said aloud. "You there! Stop this instant and come down."

The excavator continued burrowing. Frodo walked forward and took hold of one of the digger's ankles. "I say, do you hear me? Stop that!"

The dirty foot was pulled quickly out of Frodo's hand, accompanied by a muffled shout, then a young hobbit came slithering out of the hole, slipped off of the shelf and landed with a thump on the floor at Frodo's feet. He was so covered with dirt that Frodo almost didn't recognize his face; he realized who it was by the size of his feet; they were over-large and exceptionally furry.

"Sancho Proudfoot! Explain yourself!" Frodo said, crossing his arms and glaring at the hobbit-lad. Sancho was ten years younger than Fredegar but already nearly as tall as he, and far stouter. Frodo remembered that this young hobbit was often on the Hill, as his grandfather was Odo Proudfoot who lived down on Bagshot Row.

Sancho had a look on his face that was both comical and strange. He looked desperate… desperately embarrassed to be caught red-handed as it were, in the Bag End cellar with dirt on his hands, and also desperate to keep digging, as if he believed that just beyond the next layer of soil a vast sparkling hoard of dragon-gold lay hidden, with jewels as big as a goose's eggs! He clutched his digging tool, a wicked-looking clawed thing that Gaffer Gamgee used to loosen the soil around the rosebushes that he tended for the Bagginses; he clutched it and he looked at Frodo, then up at the hole he had made. He looked down at the tool in his hand and then moved it behind his back, as if to hide it.

"It is a little too late for that!" Frodo said, quite at the end of his patience. "Well? Are you coming out or must I remove you? I have already turned out a handful of hobbit-fry from my pantry... I wonder how many more I will find lurking under the bed! I am shocked and surprised to find you knocking holes in my walls... what will your grandfather say?"

Sancho scrambled to his feet, dropping the digging claw and staring past Frodo at the door of the cellar. Frodo could see, by the expressions the young hobbit's face, what he was thinking as clearly as if he were speaking aloud. When the lad bolted for the door, trying to duck under Frodo's hand and escape, Frodo reached out and caught his collar as easily as picking an apple off of a tree.

But holding on to him was not so easy. Sancho writhed like a fish, turning upon Frodo's hand as if to get his teeth into his arm. Frodo dropped him in surprise, and Sancho landed on the cellar floor on his back. He flipped over and shuffled on all fours as quick as he could toward the door. Frodo caught up with him and picked him up again, this time by the back of the belt. Sancho dangled in his hand like a dirty bag.

"You won't mind if I see you out, will you, Sancho?" Frodo said wryly, and he toted the young hobbit out of the cellar through the kitchen to the front door, Merry hastening forward to hold open the portal while Fredegar followed meekly.

"Caught another one, eh Frodo?" Merry was laughing. Frodo hauled his wriggling prisoner down the steps carefully. "Mr. Gamgee! Bag End seems to be suffering from an infestation of hobbit-fry! Perhaps we should put out a few traps!"

Gaffer Gamgee came hurrying up. "Mr. Frodo! What's tha' you got there... Proudfoot's grandson? I'd wondered when I saw the ol' fellow going back home 'lone this morning! Let me take 'im off yer hands, sir." Frodo transferred the squirming handful to the old hobbit, who for all his age was quite equal to the task of managing a young hobbit, having raised six fry himself.

Gaffer took hold of Sancho by the ear and steered him through the gate and down the hill, muttering grim promises of the switching that the lad's grandfather would have in store for Sancho when he got back to Bagshot Row.

Frodo couldn't help but grin a little, knowing that the fear of it would be harder than the actual beating itself, having been switched by Mr. Proudfoot himself once, long ago. Years it seemed now, a worn memory that could have been an anecdote from someone else's childhood.

Frodo dusted his hands and returned to the smial. Merry was waiting, and Fredegar was looking nervous again. Frodo tousled his hair and sighed, then sank into one of the chairs set in the hall. "Merry, it's time to close up shop! Lock the door and don't open it to anyone today, not even if they bring a battering ram! I am quite weary of company."

"Why don't you just relax in the parlour, Frodo. Fredegar and I will check around for more uninvited treasure-hunters and I'll lock the back-door, too, so you shouldn't be disturbed. I'll take Fatty to the Green Dragon for tea, if you like," Merry added helpfully.

Frodo was quick to agree, grateful for Merry's perceptiveness. He nodded to the little hobbit and smiled tiredly. "Come back tomorrow, Fredegar. We'll fix up the pantry and the cellar then; I am too weary to do it today."

"I'll be back after I see this lad home and stop by Adelard's. Saradoc and Mother are going home today, and I want to see them off. Are you sure you'll be alright alone? I could send Sam along..."

"I'll be fine, Merry! Run along with Fatty here." Frodo helped them check all the rooms, proving that they were alone at last. He waved to Merry and Fatty as they left and then he closed the door. Leaning against it, he listening hard for any other noises in the smial. It was utterly quiet and peaceful.

Frodo laughed, shaking his head sadly. It was not even a whole day since Bilbo had left, and already Frodo was glad to be alone! Not that he wouldn't welcome Bilbo back in a heartbeat, but for this instant, he was very pleased to have the place to himself.

He prepared a cup of tea and took it into the parlour, sinking into a large comfortable chair with a sigh. For a moment he felt too tired to lift his cup to his lips, so he just sat with his head back, breathing deeply. Finally, he raised the cup and tasted his tea; strong and sweet, just how he liked it.

Somewhere between his first sip and his second, a soft knocking upon the front-door came. Frodo sighed. 'Lobelia again most likely,' he thought, 'She must have thought of something really nasty, and have come back again to say it. It can wait.' He returned to his tea. When the knocking came again, slightly louder, he ignored it and reached for a biscuit.


End file.
